University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Library  of 
HELEN  AND  ALEXANDER  MEIKLE  JOHN 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE 
WINDOW  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE   BLIND   MAN 
AT  THE  WINDOW 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

STARK  YOUNG 


THE    GRAFTON    PRESS 

NEW    YORK  MCMVI 


Copyright,  1906 
By  STARK  YOUNG 


Co 

DAVID   HORACE    BISHOP 


CONTENTS 


SONG .....     .  9 

SPRING  SONG    .     .     .     ......     .     .     .     .     .  9 

SONG 10 

SONG ii 

WHIPPOORWILL 12 

THE  LITTLE  GARDEN      .     .     .     .     .     ,     ....  13 

SONG .     ...     .     .     .     ...  13 

REAPER'S  SONG ^14 

SUNSET  SONG ....  15 

ORPHEUS 15 

HAMLET .      .  20 

SLEEP &  .     .  21 

LAST  LETTER 21 

SONNET       .........  22 

LAST  LEAVES .  23 

ODE  IN  MISSISSIPPI'S  TROUBLED  HOUR          ....  23 

SWALLOWS        .............  28 

To  A  MOUSE         .     .     ,     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  29 

DEATH  AND  THE  GHOST       .........  30 

THE  SEEKERS        ............  32 

To  CHOPIN.     His  PRELUDE  IN  C  MINOR      .     .     .     .  35 

WRITTEN  AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE      .     .     .     ."   ..     .  37 

SONNET       .     .     .     .     .     .....     .     .     .     .  39 

SONNET ....     .     .     .  39 

THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW      .     .     ,     .     .     .  40 

Morning  —  Joy        .      ,      .      .      .     ,.      .....  40 

Evening — Contemplation         .      ...      .      .      .      .  40 

ABNER  THE  NAZARENE,  TO  CESAR  PLINIUS  C^ECILIUS 

SECUNDUS,  PROPRIETOR  OF  PONTUS        .     .     .     .     .  42 

THE  DEAD  SHORE      .     .    v.      .     .      .     ,      .     ^     j      .  45 

MOONRISE        .     .     .     .    ".     .     .     ^     .     .     ...  48 

To  THE  NlGHT-WlND         .        .        ,       ....        ...        .  48 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NOCTURNE        ....     .-.'•»'.     ...     .     .  49 

RAIN  AT  NIGHT    ............  50 

THE  BROOKLYN  FERRY     .     .     ...     .     .     . "  .     .  51 

To  THE  ELIZABETHANS 52 

To  SPENSER .:.....  53 

THE  CLASSIC  SOUL 53 

WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  LOIE  FULLER  DANCE  54 

THE  BALLAD  OF  MY  LADY  JEHANNE         .     ...     .  54 

SERENADE .     .     .     .     .  55 

BALLAD  OF  THE  ROUND  TABLE 56 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  BOSCASTLE    ....  57 

To  A  LITTLE  BLUE-FLOWER  IN  CORNWALL    ....  58 
LINES  WRITTEN  AT    TINTAGEL     IN     KING     ARTHUR'S 

COUNTRY -.     .     .  61 

SONG     .     .    • 65 

NIGHT  AND  LOVE .  65 

THE  COMING  OF  LOVE    ..........  66 

SONNET 66 

LOVE  AND  SLEEP .  67 

LOVE  AND  AMBITION 67 

ON  SENDING  A  COVERLID     .     .     .     .     .     .  ' ,.  .  .     ..  68 

SONNET       .     .     . .  68 

THE  MOTHER       .....     .     .     .     r     ...     .  68 

THE  BAIRN .      .     .     .      .     .     .  69 

TRIOLET     . ..,._..  70 

SONNET .     „     ......     .  70 

UNFAITHFULNESS .     .     .     .  71 

THE  RETURN       '............  72 

SONG     .     .     .     .     .     .......     .     .     .  75 

GORDIA      .     .     ....     ....     ...     •  75 

To  MY  SISTER       .....     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  82 

To  THORNE     .     .     .     .     .     v    .     .     .     .     ...  83 

SONNETS     .     .     .     ....     ...     ....  83 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE 
WINDOW 

SONG 

The  birds  troop  black  across  the  sky, 
Their  wings  are  many,  the  sky  is  one, 
The  little  lamps  come  twinkling  out 
After  the  lordly  sun. 

The  yellow  lights  lie  on  the  hill, 
The  lights  are  gone,  the  hill  doth  bide, 
O  love,  the  fancies  in  my  heart 
Go  roaming  far  and  wide, 

And  golden  dreams  come  gleaming  by, 
The  dreams  are  many,  my  heart  is  one, 
The  hill  is  dark,  but  love  brings  light 
After  the  day  is  done. 

SPRING  SONG 

Come  every  lad  and  lass  to  sing 

Upon  my  right,  upon  my  left, 

It  bloweth  now  the  early  spring, 

The  distant  skyline  it  is  cleft 

With  tender  green,  come  sing,  oh,  sing! 

Blue,  blue  the  waters  that  do  part 
The  banks  that  wind  so  secretly, 
Where  Cardinal  with  burning  heart 
Will  mourn  him  for  Anemone. 


io    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

O  Cardinal,  wilt  thou  not  know 
She  waited  long  and  since  is  dead, 
Waited  long  for  thee  and  said, 
"He  cometh  not  and  Spring  doth  go." 

But  life  from  us  doth  also  pass, 

Come  sing  with  me,  come,  oh,  heigho, 

Come  every  lad  and  every  lass, 

The  year  goes  fast,  the  year  goes  slow, 

And  winter  follows  flowering. 

And  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 

Come  sing  with  me  the  lusty  spring! 

ii 

Blue  is  the  sky  and  white  clouds  drift, 
And  violet-caps  from  leaves  upstart, 
The  peach  blossoms  they  blow,  sweetheart, 
The  petals  faint  and  fall  and  sift 
Upon  the  wind  and  everywhere. 
But  on  thy  cheek  blows  yet  more  fair 
The  season's  rose,  thy  lashes  lift 
From  eyes  of  blue,  but  no  cloud  there, 
And  Spring  it  sitteth  on  thy  hair. 

Ah,  love,  a  morrow  and  they  go, 
For  rose  from  petals  it  doth  die, 
But  where  the  wind  that  e'er  will  blow 
Such  blossoms  back  into  the  sky  ? 
Then  wilt  thou  not  my  true  love  be 
While  spring  is  yet  with  thee  and  me  ? 

SONG 

There  is  a  garden  in  my  heart, 

My  soul  hath  part,  and  thou  hast  part, 

My  soul  and  thou  and  I. 

And  marigold  and  columbine 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW     u 

Grow  plenteous  and  intertwine 

With  rosemary  and  hollyhocks, 

And  heart's-ease,  rue,  and  scarlet  phlox, 

And  all  the  old-time  flowers  blow 

Within  this  garden,  and  I  know 

Each  violet  and  every  rose, 

Finding  therein   a  sweet  repose, 

My  soul  and  thou  and  I. 

SONG 

White  rain  and  green  fields  bring 

Lost  words  and  memories, 

Many  a  half-forgotten  thing. 

And  heart  for  heart  a-hungered  cries, 

And  the  old  loves  come  again 

Back  with  the  spring. 

The  winter  chills  and  damps  depart, 
And  warm  the  tender  winds  caress, 
And  stir  within  the  thoughtless  heart 
Reminders  of  old  tenderness, 
And  ties  long  broken  bind  again. 

Oh,  sweet  to  watch  the  garden  blow, 
And  orchards  cloud  the  upland  places, 
Soft  the  young  days  come  and  go, 
And  the  long  line  of  bygone  faces 
Draws  from  the  void  of  absence  again. 

Oh,  sweet  and  sad  the  days  will  pass, 
And  barren  winter  claim  his  own, 
Our  lives  are  shadows  on  the  grass, 
O  friend,  O  love,  where  thou  art  gone, 
Speak  to  me  from  the  void  again, 
In  the  sad  spring. 


12    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

WHIPPOORWILL 

Lo,  again  there  in  the  wood 
And  shadows  of  leaves  he  sings, 
And  out  of  his  secret  covert 
The  night  air  softly  brings 
His  long  wail,  under  the  hill, 
"Whippoorwill!" 

The  stream  it  runneth  by 

And  murmurs,  sing  whippoorwill!   . 

And  from  the  dusk  of  the  grass 

It  flashes  and  glitters,  and  still 

The  golden  song  and  the  stream 

Echoing  as  in  a  dream,  — 

Whippoorwill. 

And  risen  above  the  hill 

To  travel  the  wide  heaven 

The  fair  round  moon,  and  again 

The  bird,  and  haply  even 

The  queen  moon  hearkens  his  singing 

To  her  silver  plain  upwinging. 

Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill, 

Under  the  hill. 

Methinketh  where 
Thou  leanest  on  thy  ledge 
Haply  the  moon  looketh  fair 
From  this  same  heaven  and  shineth 
On  the  braids  of  thy  pale  hair. 
Ah,  lady,  from  thy  heaven, 
Takest  no  thought  of  me 
Who  lift  my  song  up  here  ? 
But  time  and  the  stream  do  flee, 
And  never  long  wilt  hear  the  song 
Under  the  summer  hill, 
Whippoorwill,  whippoorwill. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    13 

THE  LITTLE  GARDEN 

If  you  were  here  with  me  I  think 
In  this  old-fashioned  place, 
They  all  would  say  that  here  for  us 
There  were  not  ample  space. 

But  here  I  trow  is  all  we  need, 
This  little  garden  old, 
With  hollyhocks  and  trumpet  vine, 
And  many  a  story  told 

Of  knights  that  loved,  and  ghosts  that  walked 

Within  this  high  wall's  close, 

And  shades  of  many  a  dim  romance 

And  many  a  faded  rose. 

I  see  the  twilight  settling  down, 

The  smells  grow  faint,  night-sounds  upstart, 

I  have  the  peace  your  presence  gives, 

I  have  your  singing  in  my  heart. 

The  spring  lags  here  and  waits  for  you, 
Come,  and  who  knows  how  long, 
How  many  a  summer  we  may  have, 
How  many  an  evening  song  ? 

How  many  a  spring  may  come  and  go  ? 
But  ere  this  spring  hath  blown 
Come  be  my  love  while  we  may  have 
This  garden  all  our  own. 

SONG 

Blue  sky  and  golden  tree 
And  birds  all  singing  merrily, 
Blue  sky  and  laughing  wind, 
Old  winter  lags  behind. 


i4    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

My  lady  with  her  yellow  robe 
Goes  with  her  bright  hair  flying, 
And  follow  I  with  my  good  lute 
And  sing  the  season's  dying. 

Gray  sky  and  naked  tree, 

And  shadows  dim  on  snowy  lea, 

Black  sky  and  icy  wood, 

Sweet  autumn's  in  her  shroud. 

My  lady  with  her  yellow  hair 

Is  in  her  dark  grave  lying, 

And  I'll  go  weep  and  tune  my  lute 

To  the  winter  wind's  drear  crying. 

REAPER'S  SONG 

The  sunlight  breaks  across  the  waste, 
And  lights  the  purple-shadowed  fen, 
Oho,  my  reapers,  reapers,  wake, 
And  swing  the  scythe  with  me  again! 

What  though  to  merchants  be  the  gain, 
And  labour  starve  to  fatten  trade, 
To  richen  us  the  golden  sheaves 
And  music  of  the  clanging  blade. 

What  though  the  money  make  the  man, 
And  conscience  knuckle  in  to  wrong, 
To  us  the  majesty  of  toil, 
And  God  within  the  sunrise  song. 

So  up,  my  reapers,  with  the  sun, 
And  follow  me  across  the  fen, 
Oho,  my  reapers,  reapers  wake, 
And  swing  the  scythe  with  me  again! 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW     15 


SUNSET  SONG 

The  woodlands  wide  in  darkling  purples  lie, 

The  sun's  last  splendours  faint  across  the  sky, 

And  fallows  in  the  vesper  mists  are  lying, 

And  from  the  brooding  world  the  swallows  flying 

Far  out  beyond  the  outer  dark  are  crying. 

The  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bells  gathers  blown 

Up  from  the  listening  lowlands  overgrown 

With  ancient  yellow  sedge;  above, 

A  silence  and  the  strange  half-hearted  birth 

Of  stars;  below,  the  mystery  of  Earth, 

And  the  loneliness  of  this  time-weary  world  — 

What  dost  thou  seek  ?     Nay,  turn  thee  back, 

Once  a  soul  died  for  lack 

Of  understanding  and  of  love. 

ORPHEUS 

At  evening  he  came,  Orpheus,  pale  with  grief, 

Into  the  fields,  and  saw  the  fading  hills 

On  one  hand,  and  on  one  saw  Hesperus, 

Sweet  star  of  home,  slope  to  the  wine-hued  sea. 

Once  had  he  sung  such  godlike  harmonies 

As  set  each  stone  and  every  tree  and  herb 

To  leave  their  rooted  spots  for  rhythmic  bliss, 

And  made  the  air  all  jocund  with  his  mirth. 

But  late  his  song  hath  changed  since  thou  wert  dead, 

Since  thou  wert  dead  and  lost,  Eurydice! 

Now  from  the  brakes  the  nightingale  took  up 

Her  tragic  plaint  of  passionate  mischance, 

And  in  the  dusk  the  never-resting  tide 

Sobbed  on  the  shore.     Likewise  young  Orpheus 

Made  his  moan,  and  sang  to  his  sad  heart. 

And  as  he  sang  his  voice,  among  the  strings 

Wandering,  wed  with  the  notes,  as  when  some  bird 

Mingles  his  carol  with  a  fountain's  fall. 


16    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  oh,  piercing  sweet! 

The  night  bird  left  her  chaunt,  and  the  virgin  air 

Yielded  her  all  unto  such  ravishment. 

The  timid  deer  halted  and  stood,  wide-eyed, 

At  the  wood's  edge,  tiger  and  ounce, 

And  mountain  pards  came  beautiful  and  swift 

To  hear  him  singing  in  the  starry  night. 

Nor  had  the  wood  deaf  ears  unto  his  notes. 

Poppies    awaked    and   frail    anemone 

For  trembling  shook  her  petals  all  adown. 

And  crocus  buds,  as  may  have  maidens'  hearts, 

Burst  ere  their  time  for  ecstasy  of  woe. 

Young  bays  and  laurels  shed  their  dew,  trees  sighed. 

And,  answering,  the  wind  among  the  pines 

Shuddered   and   moaned.     Far-off,  sea-voices  called, 

And  from  the  waves  the  shadowy  seafolk  rose 

Beating  their  breasts  that  grief  should  be  so  sweet. 

So  roamed  he  about  Taenarus,  nigh  the  place 

Whereby  the  dead  depart  the  light  of  sun. 

Within  he  heard,  muffled  as  through  wool, 

Noise  of  despair,  smiting  of  hands  and  cries, 

And  knew  that  love  and  loss  brought  him  to  death. 

The  entrance  darkened  to  his  mortal  sight. 

Ah,  never  yet,  alas,  hath  man  from  there 

Brought  word  of  what  might  fall,  what  terrors  wait 

To  shatter  our  undying  element! 

"The  Olympian  Might  doth  send  this  sorrow  on  us, 

And  breaks  us  even  as  a  mountain  reed, 

Crushed  by  a  rock  shook  idly  from  the  summit!" 

So  broke  his  song  as  one  that  hath  his  heart 

Gripping  his  throat;  and  he  cried,  "Hearken,  O  Gods! 

Darkness  and  calling  sea  surround  me  here! 

Look  on  me  brought  to  death  and  hell  by  love! 

Oh,  soften  to  some  pity!     I  know  not  where 

I  go,  nor  what  may  come.     Shuddering  dreams, 

Dim  shapes  and  phantasms  horrible!     I  do 

Forget  mine  ancient  fears  and  mortuary  dread, 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW     17 

Seeing  my  soul  is  seared  to  flame  with  love. 

Whether  I  die  or  live  I  care  not.     Life 

Without  her  is  death,  and  by  her  death  were  life. 

Eurydice,  thou  all  of  my  dead  life! 

I  will  go  down  into  the  regions  of  the  dead, 

And  seek  if  haply  I  may  find  her  shade 

Amid  the  pallid  throng.     Yet  will  I  try 

What  charms  belong  to  love  and  harmony 

Even  in  the  cold  ear  of  death.     So  struck 

And  sang,  and  entered  hell,  passed  where 

Lay  Cerberus,  curlike,  whining  at  the  strains, 

By  Acheron  with  its  clamorous  banks,  by  Chaos 

And  Phlegethon,  Cocytus,  and  the  Stygian  Marsh, 

Heard  shrieks  of  the  damned  in  Tartarus,  the  lash 

Of  whips,  curses  and  cries,  and  underneath, 

The  hoarse  rivers  of  hell  rumbling  in  gloom. 

And  far  beyond  he  saw  the  fields  of  death, 

And  in  the  purple  light  the  blessed  seats, 

With  forms  there  walking  amid  asphodels, 

And  flowers  pale  as  lilies  at  the  dawn, 

Along  the  gentle  river  of  forgetfulness. 

Whereon  he  came  before  the  throne  of  Dis. 

There  by  her  dusky  spouse  and  garbed  alike, 

In  sable  robe  and   burning  anadem, 

Persephone,  the  Queen  of  Hades,  sat, 

Like  a  fair  flower  blown  into  some  darksome  pit. 

Then  Plutus  spake,  huge  thunder  tones 

Like  mutterings  underground  of  hidden  force: 

"O  man,  who  art  thou,  say,  thus  entered, 

That  letst  not  light  pass  through  thee  as  the  rest, 

But  easiest  shadow  as  thou  living  wert  ?" 

At  this  the  damned  left  off  their  wail  and  neared, 

The  happy  souls  came  with  their  white-bound  brows, 

Seeking  the  wherefore  of  his  coming. 

Whether  driven  by  wandering  over  seas, 

Or  some  god's  word,  or  bitter  fortuning, 

That  he  should  come  unto  the  sunless  realm. 


1 8    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Then  somewhat  thus  he  spake,  alas,  all  words 

Were  faded  pictures  of  that  fabric  rich : 

"One  lost  between  the  strands  of  life  and  death, 

Flesh  as  thou  sayst,  but  dead  in  soul.     Wouldst  thou 

Back  from  the  night  give  me  Eurydice! 

A  trembling  runs  through  all  my  limbs 

To  speak  her  name.     Haply  thou  hearst  me  call, 

Eurydice,  O  Eurydice! 

But  give  her  back  to  me,  thou  God,  and  there 

Is  that  divine  in  me  will  hymn  thy  fame 

And  thee  through  all  the  worlds  of  time;  for  love 

Is  concrete  with  the  soul,  and  in  it  bides 

Even  after  death.     Love  richens  earth's  dull  life, 

And  even  here  doth  make  these  souls  though  blest 

Long  ever  to  return  to  the  slow  flesh. 

We  are  blurred  imprints  of  some  Deity, 

Dim  patterns  of  a  higher  line  and  form, 

Some  Spirit  through  the  members  of  the  world, 

That  moves  wide  heaven,  and  earth,  and  the  marble  sea, 

And  lends  a  fire  unto  the  seed  of  things 

That  they  may  perish  not.     And  in  our  souls 

This  fire  ethereal  is  love  of  Man  and  Him. 

Eurydice,  O  Eurydice! 

Ay,  many  a  day  upon  the  hills  I  strove 

To  sing  thy  soul  back  to  its  cerements! 

Once  in  a  dream  she  came  and  touched  my  brow, 

Oh,  act  more  sad  and  sweet  than  that  lost  kiss 

That  Cypris  unto  dying  Adonis  gave. 

Haply  my  words  are  vain  to  thee,  a  God; 

Stern  lookst  thou,  as  to  fail  my  sense.     Ay,  suns 

Know  not  the  struggle  of  brief  candle  flames! 

I  know  not  if  they  be,  I  only  know 

That  I  am  frail,  and  grief  more  sharp  than  death! 

Canst  thou  not  hear  me  call  among  the  dead  ? 

Eurydice,  O  Eurydice!" 

As  if  his  matter  were  too  large  for  human 

Utterance  he  ceased,  and  when  he  ceased 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW     19 

Persephone  had  risen.     A  tear  fell  down 

Upon  her  breast.     "O  Orpheus,  thou  knowest 

The  secret  of  the  world,  the  soul  of  Law, 

The  power  and  the  might,  of  Force  the  top 

And  pinnacle."     Thus  spake  the  Queen  of  Dis, 

Hearing  the  moan  he  made.     But  Plutus  sat, 

Seeming  apart,  and  on  his  gloomy  brow 

The  cloud  of  the  god's  remoteness.     Thus  he  spake: 

"How  this  may  be  I  know  not  that  thou  sayest, 

Such  matter  were  too  weak  for  ears  immortal. 

But  I  do  own  the  sweetness  of  thy  song, 

And  she  doth  brood,  my  queen,  Persephone. 

And  through  these  wretched  shades  a  flame  is  sent, 

Long  fallen  to  ashes,  of  their  earthly  loves, 

As  when  my  brother  Zeus  his  lightning  stirs 

Within  the  barren  air.     And  at  my  feet 

The  Fates  forget  to  measure  life  and  death. 

It  may  be    that  this  love,  as  she  hath  said, 

Is  of  all  Law  the  soul,  of  Force  the  top, 

I  know  it  not.     But  I  do  feel  a  power 

I  have  not  felt  before.     A  Strength  that  moves 

The  very  bowels  of  hell  unto  its  will, 

And  I,  a  god,  am  rendered  powerless. 

Go  then,  and  she  shall  follow  thee  behind 

Unto  thy  hearth.     But  temper  thy  passion  yet. 

The  fruit  of  great  love  should  be  strength.     Therefore 

Look  thou  not  backward  when  she  followeth, 

But  keep  thine  eye  fixed  to  thy  purpose  hence, 

Or  else  this  love,  this  tower  of  thy  strength, 

For  all  the  wonders  it  hath  worked  in  hell, 

Will  fall  by  its  own  weight.     For  know  thou  well 

Even  love  hath  bounds,  and  to  the  immortal  gods 

The  bounds  of  temperance  are  the  seat  of  law." 

And  Orpheus  sang  no  more,  but  went.     And  as 

He  went  he  heard  her  voice,  Persephone, 

That  called  to  him  and  said:  "O  Orpheus, 

So  may  the  torch  that  burneth  in  thy  soul 


20    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Find  stuff  within  thy  purpose'  hold  to  light 
Thee  till  thou  comest  to  the  Eternal  Sun." 
And  in  her  voice  were  tears  and  loneliness 
For  human  lips  there  in  her  mother's  land. 
He  leading,  with  the  passion  of  his  strings, 
Eurydice  amid  the  pangs  of  hell, 
They  passed  the  cries  and  curses  of  the  damned, 
So  sped  adown  the  corridors  of  death 
Through  the  white  splendour  of  the  ivory  gates. 
But  when  they  came  to  where  the  outer  world 
Broke  like  a  dawning  on  the  inner  gloom, 
And  earth's  keen  air  renewed  earth's  heat  in  him, 
Desire  to  look  on  her,  or  anguish  lest 
She  followed  not,  swept  over  him,  like  flame, 
Shot  madness  like  an  arrow  through  his  brain. 
His  harp  crashed  and  fell  from  him,  he  raised 
His  arms  as  one  that  leaps  from  his  bed  in  fever, 
Shrieked,  and  turned,  but  in  the  gloom  he  saw 
Eurydice,  where  like  a  ghost  of  twilight 
Stealing  from  the  darksome  earth,  she  passed, 
And  faded  from  his  sight. 

HAMLET 

Drearily,  drearily  over  the  world 

Saileth  the  silver  moon, 

Wearily,  wearily  waves  uphurled 

Around  the  sallow  dune 

Lap  in  the  spaces  where  shadows  flee 

Breaking  the  silences  born  of  the  sea. 

A  dreamer  of  dreams  enhungered  sate, 
And  bared  his  soul  like  an  olden  harp, 
While  steadily  blew  the  winds  of  Fate, 
.Blew  unceasingly  bleak  and  sharp 
Over  the  strings  of  his  harp. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    21 

SLEEP 

Ah,  the  long  sweet  rest 

When  we  shall  lie  down 

For  a  sleep  —  for  a  sleep 

Without  dreams,  without  waking, 

When  the  chill  of  the  earth  will  cool 

The  heart's  fever,  the  dark  of  the  earth 

Give  respite  to  eyes  that  are  weary 

Of  lights;  when  the  sun  nor  the  stars 

Shall  mark  passage  of  time, 

But  in  the  dark  stillness  the  minutes 

Run  on  into  hours,  the  hours  forget 

Themselves  into  eternity. 

When  the  lustiness  of  moon  and  the  silence 

Of  midnight  are  one,  and  the  questions 

And  mysteries,  the  answers  and  truths 

Join  hands  for  an  aeon. 

When  the  shadows  of  the  vast  unforgotten 

Shall  lean  in  and  be  blent 

With  the  gleam  of  the  great  forever, 

And  we  shall  slip  back  from  the  thoughts 

Of  men,  lie  down  in  the  long,  sweet  rest, 

In  the  long,  long  sleep, 

Without  dreams,  without  waking. 

LAST  LETTER 

When  I  am  dead  I  hope  that  you  will  come 

And  look  upon  my  face,  haply  then 

All  the  life-passions  will  be  gone,  and  you 

May  see  more  of  my  soul's  self  mirrored  there. 

And  if  you  come  here  you  will  find  the  women 

Whispering  and  gibbering  about,  scared  out  of  their  wits 

To  see  me,  who  but  lately  laughed  and  mocked 

With  them,  lying  here  dead.     No  lust 

Nor  revels  here  to-night,  till  the  master  gets 


22    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Out  of  the  house  the  cold  clod  that  has  served 

His  purpose  and  helped  swell  his  gains.     I  cursed 

You,  and  you  went,  for  many  told  me  how 

That  you  were  false,  naming  the  woman,  still 

You  swore  not  so,  but  I  heard  not.     Whether 

You  did  wrong  or  right  I  know  not  yet, 

But  rather  choose  to  side  with  you  than  them, 

That  you  were  true  —  that's  my  woman's  pride 

That  still  is  quick  in  me,  though  I  die  here 

Like  a  dog.     I  should  have  taken  you 

Not  for  what  you  did  but  what  you  aimed 

To  do.     All  your  thoughts  were  large,  and  your  soul 

Beat  high,  seeing  the  strife  of  flesh  and  spirit 

That  God  hath  placed  in  us.     There's  the  place 

I  failed,  and  there's  the  trouble  with  us  women 

In  this  world,  there.     For  I  had  neither  end 

Nor  work  nor  aim  save  only  you,  and  when 

I  lost  you  then  was  I  as  wax  in  the  hands 

Of  every  passer-by,  and  so  am  here. 

They  will  put  flowers  in  my  hand  perhaps, 

One  of  the  painted  roses  from  the  tawdry 

Mantelpiece,  and  maybe  when  this  heat 

And  heaviness  is  gone  from  my  blood,  I  shall 

Have  back  some  of  the  old  fairness  you  used 

To  prate  about,  if  you  will  come.     Goodnight. 

L . 

SONNET 

Let  not  us  young  men  of  this  living  world 
Sit  still  and  hear  a  modest  silence  preached, 
Humility  and  self-distrust  —  grow  curled 
With  bowing  deference  and  tread  the  pleached 
Walks  of  convention!     Nay  —  let  us  once  whirled 
Into  the  race,  with  reins  for  heights  where  reached 
The  soul  in  golden  intervals  and  hurled 
Its  chariot  on  clouds,  stand  unimpeached 
In  ruggedness  of  youth  before  the  host 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    23 

Of  men  and  gods,  like  that  deep  man  of  Thrace, 
One  Thamyris,  who  dared  his  harp  to  boast 
And  song  against  the  Nine,  and  scorned  the  loss 
That  they  might  lay  upon  him,  holding  his  face 
Uplifted  to  the  hills  of  Tenedos. 

LAST  LEAVES 
When  I  pass  out 

Let  me  not  be  a  broken  leaf  that  dies 
And  falls  at  night  down  through  the  inmost  gloom, 
But  catch  the  colour  of  the  evening  skies 
And  drift  out  on  the  after-glow  and  bloom 
As  I  pass  out. 

ODE  IN  IV^SSISSIPPI'S  TROUBLED  HOUR 

Poem  read  before  the  Alumni  Society  of  the  University 
of  Mississippi,  June,  1904 

I  heard  a  voice  as  from  a  burning  plain, 

Up  from  the  region  of  Lake  Pontchartrain, 

Clear  to  the  northward  line  with  Tennessee, 

Cry,  "Woe,  ah,  woe,"  and  "Woe,  ah,  woe"  again. 

The  cotton  lands  are  white  with  flower, 

The  cornfields  signal  with  their  long 

Rich-laden  arms,  and  now  the  hour 

Of  plenty  is  at  hand,  and  we  are  strong. 

God  passeth  not  his  people  by. 

But  ever  comes  the  cry, 

In  the  sweet  season  of  the  summer  rain, 

As  though  from  lips  of  arid,  sun-parched  pain, 

Of  "Woe,  ah,  woe!"  and  "Woe,  ah,  woe!"  again. 

Again  the  season  with  her  promise  fair, 

And  up  from  the  palmlands  and  the  southern  mere, 

The  birds  with  promise  of  the  year's  increase 

Go  thronging  northward  through  the  golden  air. 

But  still  the  moaning  of  my  people  comes, 

The  shadow  grows,  and  ever  growing  looms 


24    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

O'er  all  the  fair  length  of  our  land,  and  near 

And  nearer  —  as  the  moon's  eclipse  that  slow 

Blots  the  white  morning  of  her  sphere. 

Rape  is  afoot,  and  reason  it  must  go, 

Our  women  are  not  safe, 

Slow-footed  Justice  drags,  and  men's  minds  chafe, 

And  mobs  and  violence  and  crime 

Increase  and  lessen  not  with  passing  time. 

O  God,  that  we  have  striven  Thou  dost  know, 

And  in  our  poverty  have  wrought  to  give  them  schools 

E'en  as  our  children's,  we  have  wrought,  and  lo, 

The  outcome  of  it  all  must  brand  us  fools! 

How  has  their  freeedom  gifted  them  ? 

How  has  religion  lifted  them  ? 

The  answer  cometh  sure, 

But  still  must  we  endure, 

O  God,  and  find  no  balsam  for  the  loathsome  sore! 

And  still  we  work,  and  still  it  festers  more  and  more. 

It  was  the  outside  hand  that  stirred  the  strife, 
The  tongue  without  that  made  race-passion  rife, 
And  if  they  were  but  silent  we  should  feel 
Less  hatred  for  the  blacks.     Some  year  in  life 
For  each  of  us  hath  memories  to  keep, 
Of  some  brown  playmate  good  to  laugh  or  weep, 
Some  lullaby,  some  old  black  mammy  who 
Has  rocked  the  eyelids  that  we  loved  to  sleep. 

It  is  the  outside  hand  that  stirs  the  strife, 

The  tongue  without  that  makes  race-passion  rife, 

For  some  there  be  that  stand  without  and  cry, 

"Make  them  your  equals,  put  injustice  by!" 

Fools  that  from  sorry  books  must  take  their  creed, 

Nor  yet  have  lived  with  us  to  strive  and  bleed! 

The  two  bloods  are  apart 

As  white  from  black,  as  castle  from  the  mart, 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    25 

And  is  it  wonderful  to  them  that  think  ? 
Nay,  oil  and  water  cannot  mix  I  say, 
And  if  they  should,  what  galling  acrid  drink 
To  vex  the  throats  that  must  drink,  yea  or  nay. 

Time  was  when  sainted  Pilgrim  fathers  made 

By  selling  blacks  to  us  a  move  that  paid, 

And  presently  their  grandsons  wept  aloud, 

But  kept  the  profits  of  their  grandsires'  trade. 

Raised  slave  to  citizen  and  bowed 

Down  citizen  to  slave,  and  lo, 

The  sons  of  them  that  flung  the  burning  brand 

Teach  us  who  snatch  it  from  this  wretched  land 

How  we  may  not  be  burned  —  ah,  no, 

Outsiders  shall  not  dictate  so! 

The  problem  is  our  own, 

On  us,  on  us  alone 

God  brings  the  work  to  bear, 

And  if  we  shirk  it  now,  beware,  beware! 

For  Chickasaw  and  Natchez  they  are  dead, 

And  Choctaw  and  Biloxi  whither  fled  ? 

But  still  the  rivers  east  and  west  do  part, 

And  still  old  Nanih  Waiya  lifts  his  wooded  head. 

And  Tallahatchie  twines 

Round  the  willows  and  the  vines, 

And  the  Waters '-Father  flows 

With  yellow  tribute  to  the  southern  sea. 

And  Yazoo  or  Chocchuma  his  red  hand 

Hath  played  his  part  and  is  laid  low. 

God's  purpose  changeth  not,  and  we 

Must  work  His  purpose  or  must  go 

With  Chata's  children  from  this  summer  land. 

What  if  He  purpose  that  we  now  should  bring 

Upward  another  race  from  travailing, 

To  bear  from  body  foul  with  old  disease 

A  new  child,  with  the  race's  late,  late  spring  ? 


26    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Granted  the  spring  be  late, 

Yet  surely  it  must  come, 

Or  God  has  stumbled  in  His  path,  His  voice  is  dumb. 

But  can  the  negro  rise,  one  asks, 

And  doubts  his  portion  in  the  scheme  of  Fate. 

Such  question  makes  him  brute  with  human  tasks, 

Such  question  treats  of  brute  but  not  of  man, 

Such  question  doubts  the  soundness  of  God's  plan. 

Aliens  know  not  aught  and  would  dictate 

The  solving  of  the  riddle,  and  fools  prate. 

We  know  that  we  know  not,  O  God,  and  pray 

That  Thou  wilt  give  us  answer  if  we  wisely  wait. 

I  hear  new  voices  from  the  tropic  sea, 

Winging  their  way  across  the  boundary 

Where  all  the  yesterdays  to-morrows  meet, 

Trooping  abreast  with  bright-clad  pinions  free 

That  all  the  white,  wide  air  with  song  is  sweet. 

And  one  cries:  "Lift  up  your  hearts,  O  People,  lift 

Your  voices  and  your  hearts  all  up  to  God, 

Who  out  of  travail  hath  the  nations  brought 

That  watch  the  level  of  His  guiding-rod. 

The  negro  must  be  raised  as  God  sees  fit, 

The  evil  must  be  cured  as  God  sees  best, 

And  we  must  strive  on  yet  to  better  it, 

Seeing  therein  some  yet  unknown  behest." 

And  one  with  sterner  voice:  "Ye  may  not  know 

How  much  the  fault  is  yours  in  all  this  woe, 

How  much  the  fault  is  others'  and  how  much 

The  fault  is  God's,  and  is  not  so, 

But  is  the  gradual  long  working-out 

Of. some  large  purpose."     Nay, 

The  world  shall  not  go  wrong 

While  God  lives  still. 

Be  strong,  be  strong! 

We  are  His  tools,  and  shame 

It  were  if  we  should  break  beneath  His  hand. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    27 

Shall  Mississippi  stand 

And  shudder  in  the  hall 

Before  the  court  of  her  great  task  ?     The  band 

Of  feasters  weave  the  garlands  now, 

Ah,  no,  she  shall  not  shrink!     Her  brow 

Is  scarred  with  buffets  but  unbent, 

Still  will  she  sweat  and  struggle  on  her  way 

Till  God  give  dawn  to  the  victorious  day! 

She  hath  stood  firm  where  other  strengths  would  fail, 

For  once  our  fathers  followed  that  slim  trail 

Where  panther  threaded  with  his  lonely  track 

The  jungle  thickness  of  the  forest's  pale; 

They  heard  no  terror  in  strange  winds  nor  read 

Danger  on  desert  prairie,  Spanish  rack 

And  Indian  arrow  left  them  unafraid. 

Then  came  the  horror  of  the  civil  strife 

Defiling  this  fair  land  with  kindred  blood, 

Then  the  more  brutal  after-period 

Of  carpet-bag,  but  Mississippi  stood 

Immeasurably  calm,  and  wrought  from  all 

Her  own  uplifting  to  a  higher  plane. 

So  shall  she  now  win  glory  out  of  pain 

And  hear  again  the  ancient  trumpet-call. 

Her  calm  deep  reverence  doth  fill, 

With  throats  that  will  not  silence,  plain  and  hill. 

Hear  all  her  rivers  praising  God,  a  throng 

Serving  with  slow,  deep  motion  like  her  own, 

And  every  mist-hung  morning  lake, 

And  rivulet  in  covert  brake, 

Glows  myriad  ripples  tinkling  into  song 

Still  has  she  vespers  murmured  in  the  pines, 
And  taper-tressed  cypress  for  woe's  shrines, 
And  still  her  oaks  bespeak  the  strength  of  man, 
Still  falls  the  fruitful  rain,  the  harvest  floor 


28    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Is  heaped,  and  still  the  great  Gulf  Mexican 
Breaks  ever  northward  on  a  scented  shore. 

And  though  the  South  must  bear  the  Afric  scourge, 

The  chastisement  may  leave  her  yet  more  fair, 

The  furnace  of  her  agony  may  purge 

Away  the  dross  and  leave  the  pure  gold  there. 

She  is  God's  chosen  instrument  to  gain 

His  Purpose*  end,  great  travail  needs  great  pain, 

But  all  shall  yet  be  solved  if  God  be  God, 

Nor  all  the  circling  scheme  of  years  in  vain. 

SWALLOWS 

O  swallow,  swallow  in  the  dusk, 

Who  skimmest  the  glassy  pond, 

Circling  and  dipping  with  the  rest 

As  if  'twere  naught  beyond, 

Dipping  thy  wings  in  very  joy 

As  if  'twere  naught  beyond, 

Canst  thou  tell  me  what  thou  art, 

Thou  summer  wings  with  summer  heart  ? 

Or  how  He  made  thee  thus  to  fly, 

And  sent  thee  with  a  season  ? 

Or  haply  thou  scornest  reason, 

And  makest  no  vain  search 

For  whither  and  whence  —  nay,  haply  thou 

Art  happiest  in  thy  flight, 

Most  joyous  when  thou  singest, 

No  questioning  thou  bringest, 

And  only  I  in  the  coming  night 

Question  God's  world,  and  cry. 

Thou  canst  not  tell  me  what  thou  art, 

Nor  how  He  made  thee  thus  to  fly 

And  leave  when  thou  wouldst  the  clod, 

But  —  swallow,  if  thou  couldst  but  so, 

Small  as  thou  art,  then  might  I  know 

More  of  myself  and  more  of  God. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    29 

To  A  MOUSE 

Wee  visitor,  who  steal 

Like  a  little  puff  of  smoke 

Down  the  shadow-line, 

How  your  eyes  shine! 

Why  do  you  tremble,  do  you  feel 

That  one  will  hurt  you  ?     Who  has  spoke 

Harsh  to  your  mother  to  'member  so  long  ? 

Sure  you  are  yet  too  young  for  wrong. 

Busy  nibbler,  little  mouse, 
Sleek  and  round  and  gray, 
What  do  you  do  all  day 
In  your  twilight  house  ? 

And  what  do  you  do  all  night 

When  men  lie  sleeping  in  their  beds  r 

Creep  out  when  the  starlight 

Comes  by  the  window,  or  pale  moon  sheds 

A  dim  pathway  upon  the  floor  ? 

Dost  thou  flit  in  other  forms  across 

Men's  dreams  forevermore  ? 

Where  are  the  faces  then  that  smile 

And  fade  from  the  dreams  that  mortals  know, 

And  tell  me  whose  are  the  voices  that  call 

Long  and  sweet  when  sleep-winds  blow. 

When  dost  thou  sleep,  what  minute-while  ? 

Nay,  what  if  thou  art  but  a  dream  after  all, 

Thou  little  traveller. 

What  sorrow  dost  thou  know, 

Thou  tiny  reveller  that  dartest 

Like  an  arrow  to  and  fro 

Through  the  troubled  day,  and  partest 

When  thou  wouldst  from  the  light. 

What  hast  thou  heard  of  death  ? 


30    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Too  still  a  thing  for  thee  to  learn! 

But  who  knows  not  that  death  will  come, 

Spite  of  human  hearts  that  yearn, 

And  is  man's  last,  long  sleep. 

Ah,  wherefore  shouldst  thou  weep  ? 

Our  life  is  real,  all  real, 

Bound  are  we  to  our  destined  home, 

And  must  go  on  from  thought  to  thought, 

And  ever  word  of  joy  or  pain 

Comes  thronging  through  the  weary  brain, 

And  who  hath  found  the  end  he  sought  ? 

But  thou  mayst  leave  the  toil  and  fret 

For  where  the  din  with  peace  is  furled, 

Mayst  always  find  the  hush  again 

Of  thy  shadow-world. 

DEATH  AND  THE  GHOST 
To  Ethel  Pool 

Southward  the  tempest  sitteth  dark 

And  binds  the  lightning  in  his  hair, 

"Good  faith,  old  man,  what  make  you?"     Hark, 

The  spirits  ride  upon  the  air. 

"I  must  not  stay,"  is  what  he  saith, 
"  I  that  am  dead  walk  with  my  wraith 
On  the  moor  to-night!"     I  looked  beside 
And  saw  a  thin  and  moonish  light 
Playing  between  earth  and  the  wide 
Of  unneared   heaven.     What   strange   sight 
To  see  a  wraith  attend  his  ghost. 

"I  loved  not  the  sweet  earth  that  the  sun 
Makes  glad,  nor  the  seasons  and  the  sky, 
Nor  the  fair  days  slipping  one  by  one, 
Like  beads  upon  a  rosary 
Through  the  frail  fingers  of  a  nun. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    31 

But  on  the  road  mine  eyes  were  fixed, 
Beating  the  path  unto  success, 
And  the  happiness  men  glean  from  dreams, 
And  the  secret  mysteries  and  dreams 
Men  tell  of,  passed  me  by  I  guess. 

"Therefore  my  soul  for  weariness 

Prisoned  in  the  sluggish  clay, 

Sometimes  brake  bonds  and  lived  apart, 

Leaving  me  to  my  brutish  way, 

For  soul  must  live  as  well  as  flesh. 

I  scarce  did  feel  his  absence  then, 

But  ever  my  vile  bones  quaked  at  death, 

As  a  dog  will  fight  for  the  heat  and  breath 

That  he  calls  life.     Therefore  when 

My  body  died  and  greedy  hands 

Put  me  away  from  the  place  I  had  won, 

My  soul-wraith  died  not  but  lived  on, 

Not  having  had  his  meed  of  life. 

For  cause  nor  strife,  nor  blame  nor  praise 

Was  mine,  nor  strove  I  for  good  or  evil, 

But  only  for  myself  always. 

Therefore,  alack,  my  God  hath  said, 

Not  having  lived  ye  may  not  die,  — 

I  that  to  God  cannot  cry! 

"  Jesu  there  in  Paradise, 

I  may  not  enter  those  fair  skies 

Lest  I  befoul  your  crystal  courts 

With  my  life's  putrid  story, 

And  'gainst  me  Hell's  gates  are  shut 

Lest  by  me  even  the  damned  take  glory. 

O  God,  for  the  death  I  one  time  feared! 

And  ever  thou  phantom  goest  with  me, 

O  starved  soul,  and  thou  mayst  not  die, 

Immortal  and  without  mercy." 

The  wraith  light  it  burned  up  and  grew, 


32    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

His  spirit  locks  fell  silverly, 
His  spirits/ears  fell  too. 

'Tis  a  long  wail  like  cranes  that  cry 

Southward  their  way  in  the  bleak  sky, 

Oh,  desolate  flights,  oh,  weary  wings, 

O'er  the  endless  marshes  of  the  world! 

'Tis  a  long  wail  and  gibberings, 

Hoarse  cries  and  lifted,  smiting  hands,, 

And  the  whirlwind  bears  them  over  the  sands. 

The  ghost  he  calleth  as  the  tumult  nears: 

"Hail  and  alas,  I  come! 

Woe,  woe!  dead  naughts  in  the  world's  upward  sum, 

Woe  —  dead  lives  and  living  deaths!" 

His  anguish  pierced  the  hoarse-dinned  blast, 

The  dead  hands  smiting  and  the  woes  grew  still 

That  grief  more  mad  than  their  own  should  seem, 

And  he  that  cried  swayed  to  the  stream, 

And  to  the  fierce  wind  bent,  and  passed. 

The  log  burns  low  and  bluishly, 

And  shadows  from  the  rafters'  gloom 

Into  the  corner  crannies  hie, 

And  haunt  the  open  of  my  room. 

The  flickering  heart-flames  fall  and  leap, 

Slow  dropping  round  the  eaves  of  sleep 

The  rain  falls  silently. 

And  through  the  thick  of  night  and  stoor 

Wails  the  shrill  song  of  the  phantom  wight, 

And  his  wraith's  mad  yelling  on  the  moor. 

The  dead  keep  wassail  there  to-night. 

THE  SEEKERS 

It  was  a  wreathed  morn  where  all  the  air 
Seemed  to  tread  softly  o'er  the  mild  white  snow, 
While  the  obscured  sun  blurred  the  gray  East 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    33 

With  gold.     Serene  as  the  vision  of  the  placid 

Slope,  calm  as  my  steps  upon  the  noiseless 

Snow,  serene  and  calm  was  all  my  mood 

As  one  that  taketh  farewell  of  unrest, 

And  sets  his  face  to  a  new  peace  beyond. 

But  that  time  may  not  stay  —  hark!  lo,  'tis  gone! 

And  now,  alas,  what  sound  disturbs  the  marble 

Silence  of  the  morn,  what  hoarse  and  shrilly  throats 

Are  these,  what  clangour  shatters  the  soft  peace  ? 

The  echoes  of  the  wood  are  all  of  grief. 

And  these  that  come,  who  may  they  be,  that  break 

Into  the  wood  and  trample  the  still  snow, 

And  smite  together  their  extended  palms, 

And  from  parched  lips  send  up  their  raucous  wailing  ? 

Wild  are  their  locks  and  their  round  eyes  are  wild, 

Most  like  the  sad  rout  at  the  gate  of  Hell. 

Old  men  and  youths,  old  men  and  youths  and  women, 

With  diverse  raiment  as  of  many  lands, 

What  sorrow  goadeth  them  to  such  lament  ? 

Voices  that  call  and  searching  eyes  and  curses, 

Multitudinous  tumult  as  when  breakers  plunge 

O'er  the  long  stretches  of  the  whitening  shore. 

Women  in  mute  agony  with  empty 

Aching  breasts  for  Him  they  may  not  find, 

Some  in  their  hands  clutch  broken  toys,  and  one 

Her  child  hath  clasped  —  so  passed  they  speechless  by, 

As  having  not  words  to  name  their  hurt,  till  that 

The  babe  wailed  in  infant  pain,  and  all 

The  women  shrieked  and  loosed  their  crying  hearts, 

Unbound  by  a  child's  voice.     Mad  youth  and  age 

Called  to  the  elements  to  answer  them, 

And  shook  the  dull  heaven  with  woful  utterance 

Of  prayers  and  wailing.     So  sped  by,  and  gave 

Room  to  the  press  behind,  nor  seemed  an  end 

To  them  that  came  and  went.     And  one  there  was 

That  seemed  somewhat  taller  than  the  crowd, 

Uncouth  his  white  beard  fell  upon  his  breast, 


34    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

His  hair  was  white,  and  on  his  outworn  cloak 

Dust  of  all  climes,  and  on  his  sandal  shoon. 

And  from  his  girdle  hung  a  flagon  wrought 

Most  rarely  out  of  alabaster  stone, 

With  figures  carved  of  sage  men,  and  their  brows 

Crowned  with  bays,  that  ever  filed  past 

Climbing  an  endless  stair,  where  underneath 

Was  written  KNOWLEDGE.     In  it  a  bright  liquor 

Was,  that  through  it  glowed,  and,  ever  anon 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  drank  anew, 

But  could  not  quench  his  thirst,  for  every  draught 

Kindled  a  fresh  longing,  as  some  strong  cup 

Doth  vex  the  throat  scorched  with  a  bitter  drought. 

But  when  he  had  drunk,  the  liquor  in  the  cup 

Was  no  whit  less,  but  fairer  in  its  hue. 

Then  with  new  draughts  and  new  replenishment 

He  madder  grew,  and  smote  with  frenzied  palm 

His  brow,  and  in  the  dinned  air  lifted  up 

His  voice.     Hoarse  was  his  cry  with  o'erlong  silence, 

Or  shrill  uplifting  in  immortal  pain, 

And  with  it  all  the  seekers  paused,  while  that 

The  twilight  wood  resounded  with  his  woe. 

"Alas,  alas!     I  sent  armed  force  to  march 

Against  my  city  and  destroy,  because 

I  knew  not  whence  I  came.     Vain,  all  vain, 

The  search  began  in  wonder  and  doth  end 

In  wonder.     The  swift  years  pass,  woe,  woe  to  him 

That  seeketh  and  may  not  find!"     His  speech  left  off, 

And  then  as  one  roused  forth  in  the  street  at  dark 

By  a  danger-bell  stares  at  another  whom 

He  meets,  so,  when  his  grief  was  spent,  the  others 

Drew  them  near  and  stood  with  narrowed  brows, 

And  all  the  voices  in  the  wood  were  mute. 

And  I,  "Wherefore,  oh,  wherefore  must  thou  thus 

Wander  forever  in  divine  unrest, 

Whom  dost  thou  seek  ?     Whom  with  so  great  search 

That  spies  into  the  corners  of  the  world  ?" 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    35 

He  hearkened  as  it  were  a  distant  call, 

And  bent  his  eye  on  me  even  as  an  old  tentmaker 

Peers  at  twilight  for  his  needle's  eye, 

And  cried,  "Oh,  say  if  thou  mayst,  thou  dreamer  rapt, 

Whither  he  goeth  whom  I  seek!"     And  I, 

"Friend,  is  it  God  thou  seekest  ?     He  is  here." 

His  gaze  burned  with  a  cruel  yearning,  and 

He  turned  from  me  and  set  upon  his  search, 

Yet  bent  not  humble  brow,  but  seemed  to  hold 

His  inner  hell  in  grand  disdain,  and  like 

To  him  that  rather  wins  than  loses.     Passed, 

And  the  rest  with  him,  that  once  again  the  wood 

Shook  with  the  clamour  of  the  starved  breasts 

Of  them  that  sought  and  knew  not  if  they  found. 

To  CHOPIN.     His  PRELUDE  IN  C  MINOR 

(Life  speaks) 

Cover  my  shoulders  with  the  golden  tissue, 

Set  about  my  hair  the  rope  of  pearl, 

Clasp  the  yellow  slippers  on  my  feet, 

And  round  the  naked  ivory  of  my  arm 

The  silver  coil.     Smother  the  flare  of  the  sconce, 

And  blow  out  the  tremulous  taper,  none  save  the  lamps 

Of  heaven  shall  light  his  advent.     Lo,  he  cometh! 

Cometh  the  bridegroom  of  fair  life!     Day  wanes, 

See  how  the  moon  shakes  out  her  silver  raiment! 

Cometh  the  bridegroom  of  fair  life!     Gleam,  gleam, 

My  slippers  underneath  the  violet  hem! 

So  let  me  stand  beside  my  couch  to  meet 

Him.     I  shall  meet  this  Caesar,  I 

Shall  go  with  him,  his  bride.     The  heavy  arm 

Of  Charlemagne,  the  brawn  of  Eric,  all 

The  valour  of  the  mighty  dead  that  throng 

The  world  forever,  all  long  since  have  passed 

Into  his  sinews,  and  upon  his  brow 

The  beauty  of  dead  times  is  gathered,  culled 


36    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

From  gardens  where  the  roses  blow  most  sweet. 

And  she  whose  jewelled  voice  broke  like  a  shower 

Of  spirit  pearls  upon  a  spirit  harp 

The  starry  silence  of  the  dusky  Nile 

Hath  rendered  unto  him  his  meed  alike 

With  Thais,  Helen  and  Semiramis, 

With  Guenevere  and  Isoude  and  the  Maid 

Of  Astolat  —  so  have  they  passed  them  all 

Beneath  his  hand,  and  he  hath  garnered  all 

Their  treasures  to  himself.     The  sapphire  peace 

Of  the  wide  sea,  the  snow-rapt  silentness 

Of  mountains,  and  the  deep  repose  of  lone, 

World-weary  pyramids  hath  residence 

Within  his  eye,  yea,  how  his  glance  doth  mock 

Them  with  its  large  eternity.     He  knoweth  how 

To  give  for  trouble  and  despair  low  quietness, 

The  sense  of  full  completion;  he  doth  bring 

A  respite  from  long  weariness  and  tears, 

And  unto  whom  remember  and  do  sigh 

He  ministers  that  they  do  close  their  eyes 

In  dim  forgetfulness  and  an  untroubled 

Sleep.     So  shall  I  sit  beside  him  hearing 

Answers  to  the  questions  that  return 

Like  haunting  spectres  in  the  brain  of  man  - 

Time  and  eternity,  the  bounds  of  space, 

And  those  innumerable  mysteries 

That  fret  men  out  of  rest  shall  he  make  clear 

To  me,  even  as  an  open  book  in  the  sun. 

Or  perhaps  to  make  the  hour  more  sweet 

He  will  distil  upon  the  flower  of  my  thoughts 

The  blessed  dew  of  memory,  and  I 

Shall  kneel  by  Lethe,  shedding  in  the  gloom 

And  musical  low  ripple  of  the  flowing 

Dark  the  amber  brilliance  of  my  tears, 

Remembering  the  fruited  days  of  Earth. 

Happiest  this,  for  ever  on  the  rose 

That  is  most  glad  and  fair  doth  linger  dew. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    37 

He  cometh,  lo  the  bridegroom  of  fair  life! 
See  how  the  moon  shakes  down  the  bridal  raiment ! 
He  hangeth  a^  star  above  the  gate  of  heaven, 
He  smiteth  his  lyre  upon  the  boundless  air, 
The  radiance  of  his  flambeau,  dazzling  bright, 
Gleams  through  the  windows  of  my  spirit's  eyes, 
And  the  shadow-laden,  cool  night-wind  springs  up. 
Shut  to  the  casement  of  my  soul  —  Death! 

WRITTEN  AT  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE 

It  was  in  the  early  spring  you  fell  asleep, 

For  I  brought  violets  to  your  dear  hands 

Next  day  when  they  had  laid  you  in  the  still 

Dark  room.     And  now  from  travelling  many  lands, 

From  many  a  stranger  shore  of  level  sands, 

Made  musical  with  waves,  I  come  to  fill 

My  weary  eyes  with  my  own  native  scene. 

And  now  once  more  the  spring  brings  everywhere 

The  warm  southwind,  these  quiet  trees  are  green, 

And  all  along  the  ancient  graveyard  wall, 

Amid  the  tangled  sedge,  the  daisies  bear 

Their  crowding  stars.     So  all  the  memories 

I  have  of  you  are  green  and  fresh  and  pure, 

Of  that  sweet  childhood  season  when  the  flower 

Blows  fair,  ere  petals  fall  and  the  mature 

Flesh-fruit  of  manhood  ripening  to  its  hour 

Cumbers  the  plant.     Listen!  the  dove's  voice 

In  the  distant  brake  sounding  her  sad  pain, 

Sadly  I  hear,  and  in  her  mournful  note 

I  catch  the  measure  of  my  sorrow's  strain. 

Had  I  but  had  you  longer,  mother,  then 
Haply  my  hours  and  deeds  should  miss  you  more, 
But  then  my  heart  should  have  you  always  near, 
Having  your  words  and  ways  heaped  up  in  store, 
Sweet  company  for  many  a  weary  year. 


38    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Such  as  I  have  are  but  the  clambering 
Upon  your  patient  knees  to  kiss  your  lips, 
Or  look  long  in  your  blue  eyes  wondering, 
Or  put  the  dark  hair  from  your  gentle  brow, 
Feeling  a  wondrous  sweetness  steal  somehow 
From  out  your  hands  through  all  my  little  frame. 
Once  I  remember,  when  my  terrier  died, 
Through  all  the  long  stretches  of  the  night  I  cried, 
And  when  at  last  I  slept,  they  say  I  fell 
Amoaning  in  my  childish  sleep,  but  you 
Closed  not  your  eyes,  but  held  me  always  well 
Pressed  into  your  heart  and  kissed  my  face 
As  a  mother  can.     And  then  the  swift  years  flew, 
Seating  grim  manhood  in  the  innocent  place, 
And  many-mouthed  cares  are  knocking  at  the  gate. 
Yet  though  I  have  no  comforter  so  strong, 
I  would  not  call  you  from  your  well-won  peace, 
From  the  sweet  silence  of  rich  death.     The  wrong 
Men  did  upon  your  shoulders  heavy  sat, 
Your  summer  of  goodness  had  too  full  increase 
And  brought  an  early  harvest  of  your  life. 

Would  call  ?     What  mummery!     Too  well  I  know 
That  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate  must  go, 
Down  the  dim  avenues  of  death  must  pass 
Out  to  the  fields  of  the  great  forever  —  lo, 
Are  gone  from  us  like  shadows  on  the  grass 
To  the  dark  region  of  their  last  abode. 

The  Mississippi  hills  are  blue  and  faint, 

The  air  grows  stiller  and  the  sounds  more  sweet, 

The  gray  shades  cluster  round  each  marble  saint, 

And  in  the  long  box  walks  the  shadows  meet. 

And  on  your  grave,  rich-ripe  with  golden  days, 

Nasturtium  cups  are  lit  with  level  rays 

From  the  low-sunk  sun.     Still  would  I  be  a  child, 

And  come  with  flowers  here  for  your  dear  praise, 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    39 

And  with  Good  morrow,  Mother,  pause  to  tell 
The  marvels  of  the  day  —  nay,  nay,  I  know, 
I  only  fancy,  mother,  ere  I  go 
To  say  Farewell  forever,  and  farewell. 

SONNET 

I  saw  a  blind  man  at  his  window  sitting 

At  dusk,  and  always  his  poor  eager  face 

Turned  upward  where  the  sweepers  voiced  the  space 

And  rustled  all  the  dim  air  with  their  flitting. 

He  could  not  see  the  wind  move  o'er  the  ground, 

Nor  the  faint  yellow  light  upon  the  hill, 

But  only  leaned  his  poor  hands  on  the  sill 

To  draw  the  lovely  evening  from  the  sound. 

Dear  God,  within  this  window  to  the  sky, 

From  shadowed  chamber  of  our  life  we  watch, 

Likewise  eager  and  blind,  and  haply  catch 

Now  airy  strain  or  angel  wing  brushed  by, 

Or  silence  rich  from  the  glory  of  thy  day, 

And,  sightless,  only  hear  and  feel  and  pray. 

SONNET 

My  duller  hours  may  feel  the  need  of  prayer, 

Asking  of  Him  within  me  and  beyond, 

Spurring  my  puny  reason  to  burst  bond 

And  beat  against  the  mystery  round  us  here: 

To  hold  my  soul  up  thus  before  mine  eyes, 

With  all  its  hunger  that  forever  goads  — 

But  prayers  and  questions  were  now  only  loads, 

Cast  forgotten  as  my  spirit  flies. 

I  cannot  see  the  helm  nor  yet  the  prow, 

But  know  the  pulsing  motion  is  a  part 

Of  what  holds  man  and  star  in  secret  spell 

Unto  their  destined  use.     I  know  not  how  — 

This  flight  doth  pass  all  prayer.     And  then  my  heart 

Leaps  up  to  hear  the  watch  cry,  "All  is  well!" 


40    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Morning-Joy 

As  when  pale  at  the  portal  of  her  chamber 

Stood,  waked  right  strangely  by  some  dim  portent, 

Mary,  the  Mother  of  God,  and  watched  the  Angel 

Dawn  from  the  gloom  of  the  trees,  and  he  spake  not, 

And  dumb  she  saw  the  lilies  in  his  hand, 

And  read  in  his  face  the  harvest  of  her  years, 

Felt  a  new  fulness  close  about  her  breast, 

And  clasped  her  hands  worshipping  the  child 

To  be;  so  do  I  in  my  poor  fashion  prisoned 

Here,  meet  the  Morning  Angel  when  he  dawns 

Each  day  from  the  dewy  East,  where  the  wide,  white  air 

Hovers  on  the  dim  land.     And  speechless  I 

Conceive  the  beauty  of  God's  world. 

I  know  the  image  of  the  world  returns 

God's  fingers  as  wax  turneth  to  a  seal. 

Then  when  I  feel  the  Angel  come  and  gone, 

And  know  the  sky  all  rifted  with  rose  light, 

And  feel  the  vintage  stirring  in  my  veins, 

And  the  dear  fruitage  of  my  soul  increase, 

"Joy  unto  God  that  He  will  enter  here, 

His  wine  in  this  poor  fleshly  vessel! 

Joy  unto  God  that  He  will  enter  here, 

His  wine  in  this  poor  fleshly  vessel!" 

Thus  do  I  sing,  lifting  my  bowed  head, 

And  then  I  hear  the  choiring  of  the  birds 

Break  forth  amid  the  coming  morn. 

Evening-Contemplation 

Meseems  that  now  with  every  wind  should  come 
Some  Ave  Mary  bell,  and  gentle  answer 
Echoed  from  the  corners  of  the  land 
Close  the  sweet  day.     Now  the  soft  air  doth  pause, 
And  silent  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    41 

And  in  the  wood-aisles,  like  a  columned  church 

With  many  chapels,  settles  down  the  dusk, 

And  spider  threads  amidst  form  elfin  bridges 

For  the  yellow  light  to  pass.     The  curving  stream 

Sings  louder  in  the  gloom,  and  overhead 

The  weary  birds  sail  in  a  long  line  homeward. 

And  then  the  first  sky  star  shoots  glances 

Mid  the  trees,  and  by  the  moving  branches  seems 

To  wing  its  way  in  heaven.     All  this  I  do 

Remember  from  the  time  when  I  did  see 

As  you,  before  my  orbs  of  sight  were  veiled, 

Before  my  heaven  of  vision  held  the  cloud. 

But  now  my  light  is  gone,  these  fairest  things, 

Like  noble  guests  shut  in  by  closing  gates, 

Bide  in  the  chambers  of  my  soul  and  tend 

The  inner  court,  that  haply  I  being  blind 

Yet  see  the  evening  as  I  saw  it  once, 

But  with  a  clearer  vision,  see  it  now 

Glorified  and  purified  past  words. 

Sometimes  I  have  heard  music  that  struck  fire 

In  this  same  secret  spiritual  place, 

For  music  is  but  painting  in  varied  tones, 

And  listening  to  it  is  but  sight  by  sound, 

When  in  the  charmed  caverns  of  the  ear 

Do  pass  the  illumined  image  of  men's  souls 

And  their  ideal  vistas  and  spectacles. 

And  I  do  think  there  is  a  deeper  vision 

To  which  all  senses  are  poor  channels  set 

For  the  wide  sea.     An  inner  eye  that  holdeth 

Hearing  and  sight,  taste,  touch  and  every  sense, 

As  the  crystal  mantle  of  our  earth,  the  air, 

Holds  sound  and  heat,  perfume  and  light,  and  all 

Their  diverse  hues  and  melodies  and  tender 

Warmths.     That  pierceth  the  thin  walls  of  men's  flesh 

Seeking  the  Flame,  and  mixed  with  our  lives  perceives 

The  sweetness  and  the  gall,  that  thinketh  on  sky 

And  earth,  seeing  divine  harmony 


42    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

And  beauty,  all  things  from  the  pale  light  breaking 
The  vaulted  dark,  to  the  softness  in  a  friend's 
Glance.     Whose  birth  is  in  eternity, 
Whose  death  is  life,  whose  being  beats  a  pulse 
From  that  God-Force,  that  Open  Mystery 
Whereby  the  sun  moves  and  the  moon  hath  her  nightly 
Voyage,  and  all  things  great  and  small 
Live  and  fulfil  their  destined  usefulness. 
And  inner  power  that  kindles  the  dull  stuff 
We  are,  and  mocks  the  dreary  loads  and  uses 
Of  our  old  world,  having  had  glimmerings 
Beyond  this  life,  wherein  we  grope  in  sleep, 
Stumbling  in  dreams  toward  the  Great  Light. 

ABNER  THE  NAZARENE,  TO  CAESAR  PLINIUS  CECILIUS 
SECUNDUS,  PROPRIETOR  OF  PONTUS 

(Shewing  that  the  year  without  Christ  is  void) 

'Tis  now  twelve  moons,  O  Pliny,  since  I  stood 

Handbound   before  thy  lordly  Roman  tribunal, 

Since  I  foreswore  Him,  Christ.     For  my  heart  failed 

Amidst  the  lictors,  guardsmen,  and  thick  spears, 

And  smothered  torture  from  the  lower  dungeons. 

Thou  knowest  how  the  threat  was  on  my  life, 

And  I  foreswore  Him  and  renounced  His  faith, 

And  uttered  imprecations  'gainst  His  name. 

And  then  thou  gavest  me  wise  Roman  caution, 

Pointing  the  flaws,  the  foolery  of  things, 

Of  miracles   and  wonder-working  held 

By  our  religion,  spake  and  bade  me  go  — 

So  much  thou  knowest,  but  thou  knowest  no  more, 

Wherefore  I  write  this  letter  unto  thee. 

Out  of  thy  door  I  went  into  the  night, 

Into  the  wonder  of  the  summer  night, 

Went  restless  on  beyond  the  city  gates 

And  outer  camps,  to  where  the  flocks 

Wandered  like  slow  clouds  on  the  dim  hills. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    43 

So  all  night  long  I  walked  beneath  the  stars, 

Thinking  of  Him  that  thou  hadst  robbed  me  of. 

And  once  a  meteor  shot  down  the  sky, 

And  I  thought,  "Yea,  my  star  hath  fallen/'   —  So  passed 

The  summer  and  its  weary  heat,  and  brought 

The  autumn.     And  I  saw  the  harvest  field, 

Rich-headed  sheaves  where  once  a  few  seed  fell, 

I  saw  and  smiled  at  thy  wise  words,  O  Pliny, 

That  had  denied  all  miracles  and  wonders 

As  foolish  babble  of  a  rabble  sect. 

Through  all  the  sundry  changes  of  the  year 

I  roamed  and  could  not  rest.     Empty  and  vain 

Shewed  autumn's  fruitful  fruitlessness.     And  when 

The  winter  came  and  nights  of  cold,  keen  stars 

And  wailing  wind,  the  heat  within  my  veins 

Seemed  but  a  mockery  of  life,  the  heart 

Being  dead.     I  saw  the  moon  through  the  bare  boughs, 

And  watched  and  said,  "Surely,  without  Him 

The  moon's  is  but  an  idle  wandering." 

I  turned  me  unto  Zion  with  my  cry: 

"Why  standest  Thou  afar  off",  O  my  God  ? 

Arise,  O  Lord,  O  God,  lift  up  thine  hand! 

If  Thou  forgettest  me,  weigh  down  mine  eyes 

That  I  may  sleep  the  sleep  of  death,  and  wake 

Nearer  to  Thy  likeness.     Art  Thou  not 

A  portion  of  mine  own  inheritance  ? 

O  God,  why  hast  Thou  then  forsaken  me  ? 

In  the  daytime  I  cry  but  Thou  hearest  not, 

Nor  am  I  silent  in  the  long  night  season. 

My  fathers  trusted  Thee,  O  God,  and  Thou 

Didst  hear  them  cry.     Oh,  lift  me  up,  my  God!" 

But  unto  me  my  fathers'  God  was  mute, 

Nor  any  sign  from  Him  from  out  the  depths. 

So  went  I  through  the  winter,  the  long  days 

Before  the  coming  of  the  tender  warmths; 

But  when  at  last  the  season  shifted  still 

Felt  I  no  thawing  of  my  frozen  soul. 


44    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Surely  with  spring,  I  said,  I  will  escape 

This  thing,  for  then  the  light  snow  melts  away, 

And  the  young  sun  powders  every  orchard  vale 

With  blossoming,  and  by  the  stream  blue  lilies 

Shine  and  quiver.     Then  the  hills  put  forth, 

And  courage  wakens  in  the  heart  of  man, 

And  in  their  beds  the  waterbrooks  are  full. 

Yet  still  was  I  scorched  with  a  drought 

No  water  could  allay,  no  drink  could  slack. 

And  in  my  heart  the  spirit  was  as  dead. 

Wherefore  was  it  then  I  turned  me  back 

Unto  the  fount  of  God,  then  felt  my  spirit  grow 

Back  to  its  wonted  strength  —  for  in  man's  life 

Our  Christ  is  courage.     No,  I  will  not  forget! 

For  he  stood  by  my  side  at  the  cool  dawn 

As  I  had  seen  Him  stand  at  the  tomb 

Of  Lazarus,  and  called  my  dead  soul  forth 

And  loosed  its  cerements  of  doubt,  and  said : 

"Thou  wilt  not  leave  me,  brother,  it  is  well. 

I  am  thy  life,  the  way  unto  thy  feet, 

And  I  am  thee,  and  thou  me."     Is  this 

Likewise  no  miracle  then  that  a  long  putrid 

Heart  should  throb  again  to  life  ?     He  was 

The  same.     And  only  I  shall  change  with  the  years, 

And  the  world  change,  but  He  will  change  Him  not. 

Ay,  I  have  seen  Him  and  I  know.     Wherefore, 

O  Pliny,  do  thou  let  me  stand  again 

Before  thee  and  unsay  what  I  have  said 

Touching  this  man.     There  will  I  speak 

That  the  world  shall  hear  from  Syria  to  where 

Sits  lordly  Rome  beyond  the  subject  sea. 

Then  let  me  die  that  I  may  live  in  Christ, 

For  I  will  rest  me  now  beside  the  Fount 

Of  life,  having  had  my  little  day  of  sweat, 

And  now  upon  me  Death  hath  lost  his  sting, 

And  over  me  the  grave  his  victory. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    45 

THE  DEAD  SHORE 

We  came  at  last  unto  a  desert  shore 

Where  the  dun  water  crept  along  the  ooze, 

And  murmured  in  the  rushes  foul  and  scant. 

Meseemed  there  was  neither  light  nor  dark, 

But  all  gray  twilight  and  a  wintry  fog, 

Formless  and  empty  save  for  that  dull  sea. 

Then  for  the  fear  that  shivered  round  my  heart 

Closer  I  held  my  cloak,  and  turned  to  him 

That  was  my  leader  in  the  dreary  place. 

"O  Holy  Bosom,  with  thy  dusky  wings, 

Tell  him  thou  leadest  on  this  weary  way 

Whither  we  come,  this  desert  shore,  forlorn 

Of  men,  of  sun  and  moon  and  the  sweet  stars  ? 

And  wherefore  comes  no  cloud  or  heaven's  favour 

To  this  dead  air?"     And  he  that  walked  with  me, 

Whose  face  was  hooded  from  my  timid  sight, 

Waved  his  dark  plumes  and  spake:  "If  thou  seest  naught 

It  is  the  worldly  film  that  blinds  thy  vision. 

Lean  to  the  tide  and  wash  thine  eyelids  there." 

And  as  a  weary  man  makes  of  his  hand 

A  cup  by  some  cool  spring,  so  carried  I 

The  water  to  my  eager  eyes,  and  looked. 

Lo,  there  upon  the  ashen  flood  I  saw 

A  troop  of  thronging  shadows  that  did  seem 

Bound  for  some  point  beyond  the  farthest  verge. 

Frail  crafts  and  strong,  galleys,  and  raftures,  skiffs, 

Light  shallops  and  slow-trailing  barges,  fraught 

With  shapes,  due  set  across  the  shadowed  sea. 

And  from  the  hills  behind  new  crowds  came  down 

And  joined  with  them  upon  the  shore.     And  some 

Sailed  one  way,  some  another,  in  long  lines 

Like  flight  of  birds,  until  they  faded.     Some, 

Alone,  went  weary,  but  spurred  on  by  hope, 

And  kept  their  faces  to  the  front  with  brows 

Unbent  ;  some  went  alone,  drawn  by  a  will 


46    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Other  than  their  own.     One  group  there  was 

Amid  the  galleys,  sailing  on  forever 

Mild-eyed  and  listless,  as  if  bound  nowhere. 

One  crowd  went  huddled  down  like  sordid  herds 

Driven  to  slaughter,  stricken  with  fear  and  dread. 

But  on  one  road  the  embarking  host  seemed  light, 

And  lifted  up  their  songs  of  praise  above 

The  neighbouring  woe.     And  many  with  tight  grasp 

Held  to  their  banners  and  their  broken  shows, 

Crosses  and  crescents,  eagles  and  ivy  wreaths, 

Relics  and  past  symbols  of  their  faiths, 

All  mingled  with  the  shapes  and  crowding  sails 

I  said,  "Tell  me,  O  leader,  who  these  be, 

Wherefore  embark  they  on  so  dun  a  tide, 

Why  go  some  happy  and  some  woebegone, 

And  wherefore  is  their  aim  so  various, 

So  many  sails  unto  the  dim  sealine, 

But  all  set  hence  and  none  that  make  return  ?" 

"Lean  thou,"  he  said,  "and  drink  that  thou  mayst  speak 

With  them."     And  then  a  second  time  I  made 

A  cup  of  my  bent  hand,  and  drank  that  sea, 

And  cried:  "Who  are  ye  that  crowd  thus  this  shore, 

And  whither  do  ye  go  and  whither  press 

Across  the  desert  of  this  ashen  flood?'* 

And  one  with  unbent  brow  and  weary  eye 

Turned  not  but  cried,  "Whither?     Whither?     Yet  will 

I  seek,  for  in  this  search  all  loss  is  gain, 

And  he  that  loseth  rather  hath  he  won." 

And  one  raised  from  a  heap  of  shapes  his  form, 

And  said,  "Fool,  fool,  thou  seest  no  light  upon 

This  sea,  and  still  thou  hopest  for  the  sun. 

Think  not  the  future  can  hold  aught  the  past 

Held  not."     Then  they  upon  the  galleys  spake, 

Mild-eyed  and  listless,  unto  him:  "Wherefore, 

O  wretched  one,  dost  thou  thus  vex  thy  heart  ? 

Better  like  us  lie  on  the  perfumed  seats, 

Idle  as  summer  in  a  quiet  vale, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    47 

Letting  our  sails  drift  with  the  wind  and  tide. 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  and  if  we  knew 

We  could  not  go  or  stay  by  our  own  will. 

Perhaps  the  land  beyond  is  all  of  light, 

Then  it  were  well,  perhaps  it  is  all  dark, 

Perhaps  there  is  no  shore  beyond  this  misty  sea, 

But  sail  and  sail  until  we  come  again 

Changed  and  remade  unto  another  life." 

"Ye  shall  not  sail  a  day,"  one  cried,  "before 

Ye  sink  to  rise  no  more,  leave  off  your  gabble!" 

Meanwhile  all  the  sodden  rout  that  went 

One  track  lay  in  a  stupour  and  made  moan, 

Felled  like  brutes  and  knowing  not  the  cause, 

But  spake  no  word.     And  then  the  song  arose 

Of  them  that  bare  the  crosses  and  they  cried : 

"Farewell,  farewell,  O  land  of  sleep  and  death, 

The  way  was  dark  but  now  the  road  is  fair. 

Brighter  and  brighter  grows  the  trembling  sea 

Onward  to  where  it  meets  the  sky.     Where  we 

Shall  see  Him  face  to  face,  for  as  in  flesh 

We  died,  in  Him  we  live  again.     Hail!     Hail!" 

But  one:  "The  earth  hath  made  a  veil  out  of  the  sea, 

And  life  hath  made  of  death  a  deathless  veil, 

I  know  not  where  I  drift."     And  one:  "Methought 

I  saw  a  light  but  see  it  now  no  more, 

Yet  must  I  forth,  alas!"     Thus  sang  the  throng, 

A  surging  tumult  on  the  ashen  flood. 

But  loudest  rose  the  song  of  them  that  sang, 

"Farewell,  O  land  of  sleep  and  death!"     Beneath 

Them  like  an  idle  summer  chaunt,  "Let  our 

Sails  drift  with  wind  and  tide,  we  know  not  where 

We  go."     And  then  I  turned  and  said, 

"Tell  me,  O  leader,  hath  the  verge  a  light? 

Methinks  I  see  a  light,  yet  see  it  not. 

Whither  do  they  sail  and  whither  land 

That  throng  forever  from  this  desert  shore  ? " 

And  he  made  answer  that  had  froze  my  heart 


48    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

But  for  the  singing  of  the  voyagers. 
"This  water  hath  not  seen  a  man  embark 
That  ever  had  experience  of  return. 
And  what  thou  asketh  of  the  mystic  verge 
That  no  man  knoweth  till  his  going  hence." 

MOONRISE 

It  happened  as  I  lay  upon  a  hill, 

And  looked  to  the  heavens,  at  the  hour  when  long 

And  mellow  lights  fall  slantingly  and  fill 

The  gloaming  and  the  dusk,  and  even-song 

Closeth  the  day,  that  suddenly  I  was  ware 

Of  the  stars.     One  by  one  they  came  like  sheep 

Flocking  the  sapphire  mead  —  those  lights  so  fair 

That  hang  forever  in  the  endless  deep 

And  the  wide  fields  of  space,  with  fixedness 

That  chafes  us  at  our  small  imaginings 

And  frets  us  out  of  rest  —  and  then  full  soon 

Near  skies,  with  twilight  growing  less  and  less, 

The  clouds  in  the  East  spread  upward  their  bright  wings, 

And  lo,  the  silver  morning  of  the  moon! 

To  THE   NlGHT-WlND 

Thou  summer  wings  strayed  from  some  joyous  breast 

Of  scented  garden  dreaming  in  the  moon, 

Within  thy  shadows   nightingales   entune 

Their  dearest  plaints,  and  'tis  at  thy  behest 

All  loiterers  to  the  realms  of  dreams  addrest 

Break  journey  for  a  little  hour  and  wait 

If  thou  mayst  tell  them  of  to-morrow's  state, 

Or  bringest  promise  of  a  morrow's  rest. 

Within  thine  arms  the  twilight-hearted  rose 

Droops,  in  thy  locks  the  tempests  knot  their  wrath, 

Stars  make  their  secrets  on  thy  lips  to  sit, 

And  weigh  thy  breath  with  dreams,  that  while  it  blows 

Across  the  weary  brow  of  man  it  hath 

Put  out  the  fever  flame  the  day  hath  lit. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    49 


NOCTURNE 

Soft,  one  goes  singing  on  his  homeward  trail, 
Under  the  evening  star  —  first  of  the  band 
That  shyly  now  will  pierce  the  gradual  veil 
That  brings  the  solemn  night  upon  the  land. 
Sweet  and  sad  comes  up  the  dove's  lone  call, 
And  weary  of  all  things,  even  of  hope, 
I  too  would  yield  me  to  the  night's  embrace 
And  the  sad  shadows  on  the  slope. 

Wilt  thou  not  hush,  thou  bird,  nor  cease 
To  laden  the  soft  darkness  with  thy  sorrow, 
When  I  who  wish  for  naught  save  only  peace 
Come  like  a  tired  child,  and  fain  would  borrow 
From  the  grim  past  what  memory  may  be  fair, 
And  solace  me  with  its  sweet  nearness, 
As  he  in  a  dark  court  with  one  small  lamp 
Shades  with  his  hand  its  trembling  clearness. 

Nature  sows  wide  to  reap  her  destined  state, 
And  to  her  purpose  with  the  field  man  goes, 
Nor  all  our  railing  at  the  hidden  fate 
May  ever  move  her  ominous  repose. 
And  when  we  think  to  wrap  us  in  dear  hope 
And  climb  by  dreams  unto  the  light, 
Lo,  the  poor  web  our  eager  fancy  weaves 
Unwinds  in  the  sorrowful  night. 

But  what  large  accents  on  the  inland  wind  ? 
Hark!  'tis  his  voice,  the  herald  of  the  sea: 
"Lift  up  thy  head  and  thy  bound  feet  unbind! 
God  poised  the  morning-star  in  courses  free 
Round  the  great  shadow  of  the  eternal  dome, 
And  gave  the  wind  to  voice  the  space, 
And  from  His  hollowed  palm  poured  out  the  flood 
To  measure  of  his  ocean  place. 


50    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

"Art  thou  not  part  of  Him  and  of  His  mind, 
The  garment  of  the  cloud,  the  house  of  light  ? 
His  mountains  for  thy  range  ?     Thy  feet  unbind, 
Lift  up  thy  head!     Thou  seest  through  his  sight, 
Thou  art  of  God  and  God  of  thee.     Arise 
And  let  His  will  within  thee  wake! 
The  soul  that  faints  and  hath  itself  forsook, 
That  soul  alone  doth  God  forsake." 

Therefore  no  longer  do  I  hear  the  bird 
In  golden  melody  that  makes  his  moan, 
But  rather  some  old  joyaunce  long  unheard. 
I  sit  no  more  a  stranger  at  mine  own, 
But  roam  my  chamber  of  the  spacious  air. 
The  prisoned  moon  hath  found  release, 
And  the  mysterious  choir  of  the  stars 
Sing  as  of  old  together,  "Peace,  Peace!" 

RAIN  AT  NIGHT 

The  rain  falls  in  the  empty  streets  to-night 

Gray  and  fine,  the  street-lamps  overhead 

Glimmer  through  the  aspen  trees  and  shed 

Upon  the  tremulous  leaves  a  strange  white  light; 

The  lower  lamps  weave  on  the  cobble  stones 

A  magic  mail,  e'en  such  as  fishes  meet 

When  love  goes  questing  down  a  Venice  street 

At  dusk,  and  torch  to  purple  water  loans 

His  tresses'  splendour.     Ah,  what  sails  to  scan 

Upon  this  looming  sea,  what  caravan 

Of  dreams  doth  pass  on  nights  like  this! 

Yet  they  were  poor  if  wholly  I  did  miss 

The  city's  roar  and  travail  from  the  rain 

Whose  witching  presence  haunts  the  chambered  brain. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    51 

THE  BROOKLYN  FERRY 

Ding,  dong,  dong,  the  bell 

Cleaving  the  gray  dusk, 

The  thick  stamping  and  rattling 

Of  feet,  the  thud  of  the  wharf-doors 

Closing,  passengers  hurrying  aboard! 

Ding,  dong,  dong,  the  answering  whistle, 

The  click  of  the  iron-latticed  gates! 

The  white  steam  puffs  and  rises 

At  the  sides,  the  increasing  splash 

Of  the  heavy,  rumbling  wheels, 

And  we  are  off.     Then  after  the  passage 

From  the  plashy  wooden  walls 

A  mellow  brightening  on  an  open  sea. 

Beneath  the  stern  a  gurgling 

And  stammering  of  the  little  waves, 

And  in  the  wake  furrows  of  light 

Following  the  huge  rudder. 

South,  East,  West,  the  gray  sky 

Is  one  with  the  waters, 

Light-lurking  gray  where  in  a  trice  may  burn 

Some  fire  of  passing  barge, 

Or  signal  sent,  or  faint 

Reflection  of  an  unseen  blaze. 

East,  West,  South,  gray  with  glimmering 

Lights  that  mark 

The  uncertain,  distant  shores. 

But  northward  still  the  black  shadow 

Of  the  city  looms,  towers,  roofs, 

And  spires,  higher  ever,  dark, 

As  if  the  wing  of  man's  ambition 

Beat  against  the  firmament. 

And  now  a  far-off  ferry-boat 

Glides  through  the  space,  all  lights, 

And  seems  to  rain  stream-fires 

Into  the  waves,  and  passes  and  goes  out 


52    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Again.     Or  a  wet  sail  moves 

Like  a  ghost,  reflecting  the  lurid,  dim 

Lantern  at  the  mast-top,  with  a  loud 

Flapping  in  the  wind.     Or  gulls 

Blow  in  from  the  Sound,  and  for  a  moment 

Gleam  in  the  light-track  of  our  boat. 

But  ever  the  gray  dusk,  spreading, 

Cloaking  round  and  above, 

Till  suddenly  the  New  York  lights, 

As  if  a  vast  and  wondrous 

Constellation  rose,  beautifully 

As  a  single  sun,  out 

Of  the  sea!     And  now 

The  sister  city's  lamps,  all  springing 

Like  a  second  galaxy 

Upon  the  sky.     And  lo, 

The  long  arch  of  lesser  fires 

Bridging  the  spaces  of  the  stars! 

To  THE  ELIZABETHANS 

To-night  I  heard  low  music  from  a  barge 
In  travel  down  the  river,  and  the  strains, 
Tremulously  swelling,  broke  the  large, 
Dark  silence  on  the  waters  and  the  plains. 
Till  presently  one  drew  up  near  the  marge, 
And  faintly  rose  above  the  hum  of  strings 
A  ballad  song  of  how  with  sword  and  targe 
A  knight  of  eld  did  leave  his  revellings 
And  bower  to  journey  on  a  pilgrimage. 
And  lo,  this  minstrelsy  hath  set  awake 
My  thoughts  to  leave  this  many-troubled  stage 
Of  everyday,  and  in  my  closet  make 
Myself  a  palmer  to  that  Holy  Land 
Where  poesy  hath  sepulchre  and  band. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    53 


To  SPENSER 

(Written   where   the   Faerie   Queene   breaks   off  with    an 
unfinished  stanza) 

When  thou  leftst  off  —  ere  with  its  ocean  sweep 

Broke  the  sweet  thunder  of  the  final  line 

Over  the  margin  of  the  verse'  confine,  — 

And  shadowy  death  did  take  thee  in  his  keep  — 

Meseemed  I  was  in  a  sort  of  sleep, 

Wherein  no  stirring  of  the  flesh  was  mine, 

But  soul  wide-roving  amid  dreams  divine, 

And  my  clear  sight  did  down  a  vista  leap. 

It  was  a  faery  corridor  in  space 

Strewn  with  dear  pleasaunce  and  most  rare  delight, 

Confused  sweets  in  dim  and  magic  place, 

Where  at  the  end  burned  ever  a  great  light, 

Glorious  and  fair,  though  hidden  was  that  Face, 

Being  too  radiant  for  our  mortal  sight. 

THE  CLASSIC  SOUL 

Last  night  I  dreamed  that  through  the  present  stress 

Of  works  and  hours,  where  men  must  fret  and  grieve, 

Seek  fingerprints  of  Deity,  nor  leave 

The  things  that  count  for  neither  more  nor  less, 

I  saw  in  vales  of  sun  and  peacefulness 

A  marble  shrine,  gold-chased  and  silver,  rise, 

With  brazen  tripods  scenting  those  near  skies, 

Where  men  and  maidens,  gay  but  raptureless, 

With  coronals  and  wreaths  those  pavements  trod, 

For  tears  brought  honey-cakes  and  fat  of  bull, 

'Twixt  flesh  and  spirit  keeping  even  mean, 

Festive,  calm.     And  lo,  the  fair  white  god 

Upon  his  jasper  throne  sat  beautiful 

And  cold,  high  and  immortally  serene! 


54    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  LOIE  FULLER  DANCE 

Could  he  that  once  from  Attic  marble  smote 

The  Winged  Victory  but  watch  thy  dress 

In  gradual  slipping  on  from  note  to  note 

Of  musical   and   plastic  loveliness, 

Its  undulant  rhythms  through  the  realms  of  light, 

Could  see  thy  glamorous  length,  thy  golden  hair, 

And  passionate,  high  breasts,  then  would  he  slight 

The  Elysian  regions,  crying,  "Lo,  is  there 

What  I  have  yearned  ever  to  express, 

Have  touched  but  could  not  fix,  finding  too  cold 

The  stone  for  such  deep  passion's  stress. 

But  this  is  spiritual  marble,  or  my  old 

Soul-hunger,  conjuring,  hath  here  descried 

The  genius  of  my  art  and  deified." 

THE  BALLAD  OF  MY  LADY  JEHANNE 

The  owl-haunted  gloom  of  even 

Lay  yet  unburied  in  the  dark, 

Uncoffined  the  pale  light  of  heaven.  Didst  hark 

How  the  vesper  bell  rang  tolls, 

Sweet  forgiveness  for  the  souls 

Of  the  departed  ?     Chaunt  and  prayer, 

Round  her  bier  the  tapers'  glare. 

Yellow  was  my  love's  long  hair 

With  the  stringed  pearls  through  it  drawn, 

And  tinted  was  her  cheek  more  fair 

Than  the  damask  rose  at  dawn, 

And  the  light  within  her  eyes 

Did  outshine  the  evening  skies. 

And  when  the  summer  dusk  drew  round, 
Her  gentle  fingers  touched  the  string 
Of  her  lute,  and  waked  a  sound 
To  meet  the  notes  that  she  did  sing, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    55 

Passing  mock-bird's  golden-throated 
Songs  from  moon-lit  woodlands  floated, 
While  the  lilies  on  her  breast 
Rose  and  fell  in  love's  unrest. 

And  so  I  wondered  that  her  hair 

Should  keep  its  lustre  when  had  fled 

The  roses  from  her  cheeks  so  fair. 

Lying  quiet  on  her  bed, 

So  young  and  pale  and  innocent, 

While  all  her  people  came  and  went, 

"God  a  mercy  on  her  soul/' 

Said  the  people,  making  dole. 

Yet  how  should  I  know  'twas  her  kinsman  —  he  — 

For  none  hath  told  my  love  and  me, 

"My  sword  and  my  love  and  me. 

And  who  hath  not  heard  the  people  say, 

Coming  and  going  the  livelong  day, 

"God  a  mercy  on  her  soul," 

Said  the  people,  making  dole. 

SERENADE 

Look  out,  my  lady  fair,  and  see 

The  lustre  of  the  night, 

The  moon  beneath  her  canopy 

Sails  beauteous  and  bright, 

The  hawthorn  bough  swings  to  and  fro, 

The  nightingale  sings  low,  sings  low, 

Look  out,  my  lady  fair. 

Lean  from  thy  window  o'er  the  moat, 

That  mirrors  dark  the  castle  walls, 

And  let  the  ivory  of  thy  throat 

Gleam  white  from  where  the  darkness  falls 

Of  thy  long  tresses  scented  so 

No  garden  spices  here  that  blow 

With  them  can  half  compare. 


56    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Oh,  if  my  broken  roundelay 
On  such  a  night  seem  old  and  poor, 
Think  of  the  kiss  that  yesterday 
Thou  gav'st  to  me,  thy  troubadour, 
Think  of  the  garden  here  below, 
And  all  the  joys  that  love  may  know 
Ere  youth  hath  met  with  care. 

So  hark,  my  lady  fair,  and  hear 
The  twitter  of  my  lute  that  wings 
My  heart  to  thee,  my  lover's-fear, 
And  all  the  silent  secret  things 
That  one  awakened  soul  unto 
Another  secret  soul  may  show 
When  love  hath  entered  there. 

Look  out,  my  lady  fair,  and  see 

The  lustre  of  the  night, 

The  moon  beneath  her  canopy 

Sails  beauteous  and  bright, 

The  hawthorn  bough  swings  to  and  fro, 

The  nightingale  sings  low,  sings  low, 

Look  out,  my  lady  fair! 

BALLAD  OF  THE  ROUND  TABLE 

Where  is  the  glittering  caravan 

With  brazen  trumpets  all  aflare, 

And  all  the  glory  dear  to  man 

Of  steel's  white  edge  and  helmet's  glare, 

And  banners  bright  in  summer  air, 

True  knights  all  whose  only  care 

Is  whether  ladies  praise  or  not, 

Squires  and  falcons  in  the  rear 

Riding  down  to  Camelot  ? 

Who  knows  the  jests  of  Dinadan, 
Or  marvels  at  Isoude  the  Fair  ? 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    57 

How  doth  the  Lord  of  Carnavan, 
And  Tristram,  Gawain,  Bedivere  ? 
Ah,  where  is  the  sail  on  the  alien  mere, 
To  Sarras  with  three  to  watch  and  ware  ? 
Where  are  the  tempers  lusty,  hot, 
The  flower  of  May,  the  favour  to  wear, 
Riding  down  to  Camelot  ? 

Nay,  what  are  the  fires  now  that  ran 

Scorching  the  veins  and  streaking  the  hair, 

Where  is  the  love  of  the  son  of  Ban, 

That  marred  his  search  and  clogged  his  prayer  ? 

The  hundred  knights  upon  the  stair, 

The  beauty  and  taint  of  Guenevere, 

The  arm  and  passion  of  Launcelot, 

The  silence,  struggle,  and  despair, 

Riding  down  to  Camelot  ? 

Envoi 

Arthur,  king  without  a  peer, 

Even  thy  sepulchre  is  forgot, 

Thy  courts,  thy  joustings,  where,  oh,  where, 

Riding  down  to  Camelot  ? 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BELLS  OF  BOSCASTLE 

The  sky  is  vanished  from  the  world, 
Nor  even  a  shadow  lingers  more, 
But  through  the  dark  upon  the  wind 
I  hear  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 

It  was  four  hundred  years -agone, 
The  bay  it  mirrored  every  star, 
And  'mid  the  stars  the  captain  saw 
The  lights  upon  the  harbour  bar. 

The  captain  smote  his  brawny  chest, 
'Tis  I  that  brought,  quoth  he, 


58    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

The  bells  from  Fraunce,  nor  asked  for  help 
Cbriste's  moder  dear,  Mari. 

The  captain  glared,  the  seamen  stared, 
The  wind  is  on  the  waste, 
The  stars  are  dimmer  one  by  one, 
The  pilot  crosseth  him  in  haste. 

The  fierce  wind  bringeth  thicker  night, 
The  black  waves  beat  against  the  sky, 
Ye  cannot  see  the  signal  lights, 
Ye  cannot  hear  the  sailors'  cry. 

The  bells  of  Fraunce  upon  the  prow 
Will  never  in  the  belfry  hang, 
And  now,  they  jangle  as  they  toss 
A  mad,  wild  clang. 

Upon  the  sands  the  seamen's  bones 
'Mid  the  white  corals  lie, 
And  in  their  midst  the  bells  of  Fraunce 
Still  ring  them  ceaselessly. 

The  lithe  sea-maidens  circle  round, 
And  dance  within  their  wake, 
And  strange  sea-things  abide  to  hear 
The  melodies  they  make. 

And  thus  for  sinful  souls  they  pray 
Christe's  moder  dear,  Mari, 
And  sailors  hear  them  far  and  near 
Go  ringing  in  the  sea. 

To  A  LITTLE  BLUE-FLOWER  IN  CORNWALL 

Little  blue-flower  on  the  cliff, 
Looking  outward  to  Cardiff, 
Can  you  hear  me  while  the  tide 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    59 

Beats  below  such  stress  and  stride  ? 
If  not  I  can  wait,  you  know, 
Till  the  tide  is  low. 

Meseems  that  you  have  never  died 
From  King  Arthur's  day  to  this, 
Though  each  winter  you  must  hide 
From  the  mistral's  touch  and  kiss, 
But  you  come  with  spring  again, 
And  the  clear,  white  rain, 
And  the  fair 
Young  April  air. 

Once  what  cavalcades  passed  here, 

Martial  music  in  your  ear! 

Here  the  King's  Round  Table  passed, 

And  the  damsels  of  the  Queen, 

With  the  big  herds  following  last, 

Tribute  of  the  King's  demesne. 

Here  on  her  palfrey  Guenevere 

Came  all  in  green  and  gold  arrayed, 

And  strong  and  bright  Sir  Launcelot's  spear 

In  her  service  long  assayed. 

Here  went  Sir  Gareth  and  Sir  Bors, 

Ygraine,  Nimue,  and  Peleas, 

With  shying  steed  at  prickly  gorse. 

La  Beale  Isoude  did  hither  pass 

Riding  with  Tristram  from  the  spies 

Of  crafty  Mark.     And  her  eyes  were  blue, 

Blue  and  tender  as  the  skies, 

Little  flower,  and  so  were  you. 

That  was  many  years  ago, 

And  you  have  watched  them  one  by  one, 

Fewer,  fewer,  come  and  go, 

Till  their  days  were  done. 

Still  from  your  thoughts,  oh,  treasure-trove, 


60    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

You  can  people  every  cove, 

Till  all  the  shore  with  fairies  teems, 

Cast  round  each  distant  passing  boat 

Some  dim  romance  spun  from  your  dreams. 

Can  see  the  white  gulls  upward  float 

As  if  foam-caps  blown  astray 

Drifted  from  the  flocking  spray. 

Still  may  you  hear  the  night-wind  go 

Whistling  where  the  rushes  move, 

Hear  the  surges  swinging  slow 

In  a  smooth,  blue-watered  cove, 

May  fancy  music  in  the  air, 

Gauntlet  clink  on  boss  of  targe, 

From  some  carven  pageant-barge 

Anchored  there. 

And  with  your  breath  the  air  is  laden, 
And  the  perfume  of  the  heather, 
As  when  faery  lady's  maiden 
Mingles  honey  sweets  together. 
Like  the  spirit  of  the  savour, 
As  the  ancient  legends  tell, 
As  a  signal  of  his  favour 
Jesu  sent  into  the  cell, 
Round  Sir  Launcelot's  low  bed, 
When  the  startled  brothers  crept 
There  and  found  him  lying  dead 
As  if  he  smiled  and  slept. 

And  you  have  memories  to  hold 
Of  the  morning  of  this  land, 
Of  fresh  dew  and  that  first  gold 
That  the  morning  brings  to  hand. 
And  flowers  that  have  seen,  I  trow, 
Mighty  thoughts  become  great  deeds, 
Find  it  easier  to  grow 
Tall  'mid  common  choking  weeds. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    61 

They  that  have  seen  not  count  such  love, 
Such  feats,  such  strokes  but  bard's  fancy, 
But  you  have  seen,  nor  doubts  can  move 
That  such  things  be. 

Perhaps  your  purity  now  joins 

Our  age  to  Arthur's  purer  one. 

Who  knows  but  from  his  princely  loins 

Some  drop  of  blood  our  veins  may  run? 

And  I  claim  that  each  tide  may  bring 
Word  of  some  lord  once  that  bore 
Mind  of  child  and  heart  of  king, 
That  some  brave  deed  and  hand  of  yore, 
Like  a  sweet,  strong,  rich  incense, 
Still  may  rise  to  them  that  strive 
For  a  larger  sky  and  live 
Lives  in  the  old  innocence. 

LINES    WRITTEN    AT    TINTAGEL    IN    KING    ARTHUR'S 
COUNTRY 

To  Sarah  and  Frances  Starks 

Still  beats  the  lusty,  ever-changing  tide 

About  the  shore,  and  from  each  hollow  cave 

And  secret  cavern  the  reverberations 

Of  the  vexed  surge  spread  like  the  sound  of  wind 

Over  the  lone  moors.     And  still  the  cry 

Of  seabirds  on  the  cliff,  and  the  black  rooks  turning 

Their  course  landward  at  night,  and  the  slow,  white  gulls 

Circling  in  dizziness  above.     Still 

The  spring  returneth  with  May  sun  that  blows 

The  flower  in  men's  blood,  and  with  the  tender 

Herbage  on  the  hills  again,  the  soft 

Reviving  of  old  tenderness  in  hearts 

Grown  half-forgetful  of  old  ties.     And  summer 

Comes,  and  the  hard  winter  that  doth  build 


62    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Might  and  courage  in  the  sinews.     But 

Where  the  great  king,  the  prowess  and  the  strokes, 

The  feasts,  the  chivalry,  the  royal  state 

And  splendour  of  his  hall  ?     The  selfsame  cliffs 

Are  here,  and  the  sea  lashing  at  the  crags, 

But  of  the  castle  keep  three  lone  walls  left, 

Toppling  into  ruins  that  mock  man's  work. 

Here  once  met  the  brave  valour  of  the  world, 

And  beauty  culled  from  every  part  was  here, 

Here  shields  heraldic  once  blazed  back  the  sun, 

And  like  a  forest  massed  the  helmet  plumes 

Where  the  fight  thickened,  and  the  tall  spearheads 

Flickered,  as  they  moved,  like  many  flames. 

And  here  the  coursers'  and  the  war-steeds'  trappings 

Hung,  all  heavy  with  golden  gauds  and  bells, 

That  when  their  mettled  wearers  plunged  and  sped 

Did  crash  and  jingle  sequences  of  chords 

Barbaric,  fit  for  a  Cyrus'  ear.     This  plain 

Felt  shock  of  tournaments,  gay  joustings  waged, 

Fights  to  the  death  for  honour  or  in  judgment 

Ominous.     And  often  in  the  night 

The  sharp-striking  steel  feet  of  horses  came  galloping  by, 

'Mid  rattle  of  pebbles  and  wild  flash  of  helmets  and  arms, 

And  clatter  and  clanking  of  bridle  and  mail,  growing 

dimmer 

And  duller,  then  gone,  while  the  silence  that 
Returned  found  in  the  windows  many  a  face, 
'Mid  her  long,  loose  hair,  of  maiden  waked  from  dreams 
And  set  all  wondering  at  the  troop  of  brave 
Strange  youths  that  rode  so  gallantly  that  way. 
But  now  dun  shadows  keep  them  round  Tintagel 
And  naught  now  passeth  save  the  wind  that  seems 
To  echo  the  mournful  tides  below.     And  now 
The  swine  have  made  their  pens  within  the  court. 

Yet  who  knows  but  that  tournaments  do  hurtle 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    63 

In  the  moony  air,  that  everlasting  strife 

'Twixt  good  and  evil,  shaking  the  spirit  world 

As  ours.     What  spirit  of  the  wind  may  bring 

His  might  to  wrestle  here  with  direr  shapes  ? 

On  what  night  may  come  hither  Arthur  the  King, 

With  his  jewel-hilted   brand   Excalibur, 

Living  the  gone  glories  of  his  time  ? 

Or  like  a  vision  Guenevere  the  queen 

In  mystic  cerements  of  white  samite  clothed 

Goes  trooping  with  her  maidens  through  the  fields 

Of  sleep.     Or  Sir  Gawain  comes  pallidly, 

All  worn  with  his  deathwound,  and  rests  him  here, 

While  all  the  fair  ladies  that  he  championed 

In  this  fierce  world  do  minister  to  him 

With  motions  slow  and  tender,  and  do  sing 

Strange  songs,  with  garments  strange,  all  glimmering 

In  the  dim  glances  of  the  haunted  noon. 


That  was  a  time  when  men  held  purity 
Clear  as  a  star  above  the  earthly  road, 
And  when  the  fair  ideals  of  souls  athirst 
Were  symbolized  within  the  Sangreal. 
For  that  all  eyes  ached,  and  to  that  all  hearts 
Did  ever  yearn,  the  emblem  of  the  fierce 
Soul-hunger  of  mankind,  comprised  in 
The  cup  that  bore  the  blessed  blood  of  God. 

That  was  a  time  when  sage  and  common  men 

Alike  saw  God  as  one,  even  intimate 

As  a  father  leaning  ear  unto  their  cries, 

Yet  distant  and  sublime  as  is  the  far 

Vault  of  heaven.     And  if  despair  and  hate 

Or  wild  revenge,  or  the  strong 

Sweet  fleshly  love  'twixt  man  and  woman  brought 

Blind  vision  and  the  fall  to  deadly  sin, 

Humbly  the  strong  man  did  repent  and  wept 

Even  as  a  beaten  child,  and  strove  to  lift 


64    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Himself  again  to  the  old  high  station. 

So  that  the  river  of  men's  lives  ran  clear, 

Flowed  on  unsullied  to  the  eternal  sea. 

But  now  men  do  not  weep,  but  fall  and  mock 

The  height  they  fell  from,  and  the  sluggish 

Current  of  our  puny  lives  is  muddied 

With  questions  that  we  fain  would  know.     And  now 

We  live  not  by  the  great  instinct  for  right 

God  puts  in  us,  but  think,  and  try  to  live 

Our  theories  out.     So  that  our  thoughts  are  greater 

Than  our  lives.     And  those  that  cannot  think 

Great  thoughts  must  make  what  shift  they  can  to  live 

Well,  seeing  they  have  not  great  lives  about, 

Have  not  those  clear-souled,  mighty-statured  men 

To  pattern  on,  as  a  wise  child  on  his  elders. 

Arthur  the  king  his  glory  is  not  safe, 

Nor  the  large  rumour  of  old  fames,  nor  mystic 

Splendour  of  world-worn  creeds.     Now  the  glass 

And  monuments  of  ancient  faiths  are  hacked 

And  battered.     Men  do  seek  to  prove  them  all 

A  myth.     And  the  pseudo-learned  go  like  swine 

To  turn  up  ugliness  and  filth  and  snout 

At  the  foundation  walls,  making  themselves 

Haply  a  little  burrow  or  pigsty 

In  the  old  courts  of  men's  philosophies. 

O  world,  O  days  of  chivalry  and  men, 

O  air  that  stung  men's  nostrils  like  a  flame 

And  fired  their  bloods,  what  ails  us  now  that  we 

Have  this  same  air  and  memory  of  all 

Those  men  and  deeds  and  are  not  greater  ?     Though 

Our  work  is  humble  and  less  slow  to  end 

Than  theirs,  teach  us  'tis  not  the  work  man  doth 

But  the  spirit  that  he  bringeth  to  the  work 

That  makes  the  greatness.     Oh,  stir  our  bloods 

To  boast  great  thoughts  and  deeds,  and  take  the  issue 

Be  it  dungeon,  bower,  or  the  broad 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    65 

White  road  of  fortune,  and  let  the  new 

Ideals  that  the  masters  of  this  age 

Have  helped  to  point  shine  clear  for  us  as  once 

The  holy  vessel  of  the  Sangreal. 

And  if  we  have  not  that  great  child-like  faith 

Men  once  had,  give  to  us  the  will  to  hold 

In  us  inviolate  that  simple  faith 

That  men  owe  unto  God  and  to  all  men. 

SONG 

Thy  heart  to  me  is  one  fair  rose 
Which  at  the  earliest  dawn  doth  wake, 
And  when  the  wind  of  even  blows 
Holds  still  its  sweetness  and  doth  shake 
An  opiate  into  my  sleep, 
That  from  my  dream-thoughts  I  may  take 
A  sweet  remembrancer  to  keep. 

NIGHT  AND  LOVE 

Dark  were  the  hours  of  night, 

The  sweet  stars  keeping 

Them  hid  in  the  mantle  of  clouds, 

The  fair  moon  sleeping, 

And  the  drear  wind  astray  without  light. 

And  the  sound  of  the  wind  was  as  moaning, 

And  over  the  strip 

Of  meadow  the  light-shadows  pass, 

And  the  little  leaves  drip 

On  the  great  limbs  twisting  and  groaning. 

But  at  last  blew  the  rose  in  the  East, 

And  the  sun  upspringing, 

And  night  fled  away  from  the  hills, 

And  rivulet-singing 

And  blithe  bird's-songs  were  released. 


66    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

So  in  the  years  all  my  heart 

Was  dark  with  a  sighing 

And  shadow,  till  from  the  rose  fingers 

Of  love  came  flying 

The  arrow  that  drove  night  apart. 

So  on  my  heart's  high  closes 
Love  secretly  crept, 
Came  like  the  perfume  of  morning, 
Fell  on  my  face  as  I  slept, 
Sweet  as  the  petals  of  roses. 

THE  COMING  OF  LOVE 

The  wild  grape  blossoms  spice  the  air, 
And  fullest  summer  doth  begin, 
But  all  my  heart  was  winter  bare, 
And  only  now  my  spring  blows  in. 

And  long  had  birds  sung  melodies, 
But  not  till  now  a  song  for  me, 
A  late  lark  in  my  spirit's  skies, 
Came  Love  and  sang  out  goldenly. 

SONNET 

I  saw  the  summer  ripen  to  attain 

Her  gorgeous  noontide,  but  to  be  enwrought 

With  Autumn  pageants  decking  to  be  slain 

By  crackling  frosts  and  icy  torments  brought 

In  wintry  blasts.     But  who  beneath  the  plain 

Keep  an  unbroken  sleep,  they  cannot  know 

The  year's  aspects,  Antonius,  Charlemagne, 

Cedric,  Roland,  all.     And  thou  wilt  go, 

And  I,  where  they  have  gone,  and  make  an  end. 

So  now  to  heaven  I  make  large  offering 

Of  thanks  for  the  short  sweet  term  that  He  doth  send, 

And  while  the  bier  is  making  hear  thee  sing, 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    67 

A  registry  whose  content  doth  repeat 
All  witchery  of  night  and  music  sweet. 

LOVE  AND  SLEEP 

A  silent  castle  on  a  gloaming  hill, 
Dark  cypresses  against  a  sky  that  fades, 
And  drowsy  homing  birds  that  circling  fill 
The  air  with  wings,  from  out  the  shades 
Chirps  and  low  flutterings  and  the  stir  of  leaves, 
The  droning  choir  of  flies  above  the  moat, 
Dull-dropping  water   and   a   pasture-bell, 
Lone  calling  dove  with  sorrow-laden  throat, 
I  thought  on  all  but  sleep  wrought  not  her  spell. 
Then  came  a  blank  before  mine  eyes,  a  flight, 
And  lo!     I  saw  a  fairer  land,  the  moon, 
Watched  o'er  a  pathless  sky  of  summer  night, 
And  one  sang  softly  that  the  hills  did  swoon, 
And  drew  her  near  and  smiled  and  beckoned  me  - 
And  then  I  knew  I  slept  and  dreamed  of  thee. 

LOVE  AND  AMBITION 

Now  in  the  season  when  bright  youth  would  fain 

In  wind  of  every  rushing  world  take  breath, 

My  soul  would  range  the  palaces  of  Death 

To  solve  the  old  world-mystery  again. 

I  hear  the  waves  beat  on  the  eternal  strand, 

And  from  the  great  life-ocean  sound  each  name 

Made  glorious  with  broad  earth-ringing  fame, 

And  there  beneath,  the  humble  lesser  band 

Runs  a  low  murmur  to  the  larger  sound. 

Shall  I  be  numbered  with  that  troop,  I  cry, 

Whose  thoughts  are  music  in  men's  ears  ?     Around 

The  thunder  of  the  great  sea  booms  —  but  high, 

O  love,  and  sweet  thy  voice  comes  o'er  and  o'er 

That  calls  me  backward  to  the  human  shore. 


68    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 


ON  SENDING  A  COVERLID 

Coverlid,  go  to  her  and  thou  shalt  find 
Worthiest  service.     Soothe  her  sleep  and  shield, 
Cover  her  sweet  young  body  as  a  warm  south  wind 
Gathers  o'er  some  tender  flowered  field 
In  the  early  spring.     Tell  her  that  rest  and  old, 
Still  country  peace  are  with  thee  —  say  but  them! 
For  to  thee  many  secrets  have  I  told, 
And  in  the  seams  and  crannies  of  thy  hem 
Have  hid  a  hundred  kisses,  and  did  trace 
The  thousand  little  crossings  of  the  lines 
With  kissing  of  my  lips,  and  bade  them  stay 
To  nestle  close  about  the  little  face 
That  like  a  pale  rose-tulip  softly  shines 
Upon  her  pillow  when  she  wakes  at  day. 

SONNET 

When  the  bright  windows  of  my  memory 
Do  colour  that  long  transept  of  my  brain, 
And  with  the  semblance  of  each  separate  stain, 
Sweet  various  lights  fall  down  through  slantingly 
Upon  the  flags,  then  all  the  glooms  must  flee 
Before  the  flooding  of  that  rainbow  rain. 
But  richest  windows  without  sun  were  vain, 
And  these  the  light  that  lights  them  is  from  thee. 
Thou  art  my  sun  that  comes  with  dawn  and  wide 
Fresh  woodlands,  morning  fields  and  streams,  to  fill 
The  noon,  and  bring  the  restful  eventide, 
And  when  night  cometh,  beautifully  still 
Dost  light  the  moon  of  all  my  dreams,  and  then 
Moonset  and  waking  and  thy  dawn  again. 

THE  MOTHER 

The  sick  mother  sat  at  her  window  singing, 
Rockaby,  sing  rockaby, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    69 

And  the  long  day  closed  and  the  dark  came  bringing 
Night  and  dun  sky. 

She  bent  her  poor  arms  where  he  had  lain 
And  fancied  she  saw  him,  and  sang  her  song, 
Sleepy  little  one,  but  never  again 
Her  voice  shall  reach  him,  dead  so  long. 

Lower  and  lower  she  bent  her  head, 
Rockaby  baby,  when  the  winds  blow, 
Over  her  poor  vacant  arms,  and  said, 
"Mother  is  with  you,"  faint  and  low. 

And  the  years  went  back  without  spot  or  stain, 
All  the  long  years  since  she  lost  her  child, 
And  peace  came  after  long  grief  and  pain, 
A/id  her  still  lips  smiled. 

And  when  she  was  dead  some  little  space, 
They  found  her  and  wept,  till  the  moonlight  fell 
Upon  the  glory  of  her  face, 
"Dear  God,"  they  said,  "'tis  well,  'tis  well." 

THE  BAIRN 

Befell  that  after  Michelmas, 

Poor  Tess  was  delving  on  the  brae, 

The  Elfland  Queene  came  riding  by, 

"Come  hider,  fair  Tess,  come  away,  come  away." 

"I  may  not  come  wi'  thee,  fair  queene, 
I  may  not  come  alang." 
"I'll  take  thee  to  the  lily  South, 
The  sweet  love-bowers  amang." 

"Not  in  love-bowers  I'll  lay  my  head, 
In  the  sweet  South  Land  to  be, 


70    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

But  where  men  die  and  women  cry 
In  my  North  Countree." 

"I'll  gie  thee  a  palace  all  o'  red  gold 
An  thou  wilt  come  beside." 
"I  fain  would  go  to  the  golden  palace, 
Where  I  may  ever  bide." 

A  merry  laugh  laughed  the  Elfland  Queene, 
She  catcheth  Tess  by  the  waist, 
"Oh  why,  fair  Tess,  dost  come  so  slow, 
And  wherefore  mak'st  no  haste?" 

"Go  thou  thy  way,  thou  Elfland  Queene, 
I  maun  na  go  wi'  thee, 
And  go  thy  way,  thou  Elfland  Queene, 
JTis  my  bairn  acallin'  me." 

TRIOLET 

(To  my  little  Auntie) 

She  is  so  sweet 
I  love  her  well, 
Demure,  discreet, 
She  is  so  sweet 
My  verses'  feet 
Can  only  tell 
She  is  so  sweet 
I  love  her  well. 

SONNET 

Note  thou  thy  mirror  that  with  its  clear  truth 
Doth  catch  unto  itself  thine  outer  mould, 
Speaks  what  it  seeth  without  pause  or  ruth, 
And  doth  the  tally  of  each  feature  hold 
And  all  the  sun  and  shadow  that  doth  pass. 
So  am  I  mirror  to  thy  secret  grace, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    71 

For  sooner  than  the  object  to  the  glass 
My  inner  light  thy  spirit's  shape  doth  trace, 
And  doth  perceive  the  image  of  thy  soul, 
The  fair  domain  of  its  celestial  hue, 
Where  varied  prospects  of  its  uplands  roll 
To  the  sweet  vagueness  of  the  distant  blue. 
Beauty  that  passeth  all  that  eye  can  guess, 
More  rich  than  words,  more  fair  than  loveliness. 

UNFAITHFULNESS 


Ere  I  had  learned  you  false,  or  once  had  let 
Doubt  like  a  carping  hag  stand  in  my  door, 
Then  I,  poor  fool,  had  in  my  fancy  set 
A  vision  born  of  days  that  are  no  more. 
'Twas  once  when  you  were  sick  I  pictured  it, 
A  peaceful  country  spot,  if  you  were  well, 
Where  I  should  till  my  field,  and  you  should  sit 
Beside  the  doorway  listening  for  the  bell 
That  brought  me  home  to  you  at  evensong, 
To  sit  together  on  the  hearth  at  night, 
Fresh  'mid  our  weariness,  in  our  love  strong, 
While  time  creeps  by,  till  soon  the  soft  moonlight 
Looks  through  the  window  on  us  nodding  there  — 
Oh,  fool,  knowst  not  her  false  that  seemed  so  fair  ? 

ii 

Think  not  that  I  will  die  as  poets  say, 

Nor  starve  mine  eyes  in  exile  from  thy  sight, 

For  though  the  night  hath  slain  the  gentle  day, 

I  know  the  day  returneth  on  the  night. 

Men  must  live  to  work  their  destinies, 

While  unto  thee  this  love  is  all  of  life, 

And  haply  I  shall  find  me  larger  skies 

In  the  brave  struggle  of  the  world's  sharp  strife. 


72    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Yet  sometimes  when  I  toss  my  wakeful  bed, 
Life  seemeth  long,  the  chamber  vacant  seems, 
The  slow  years  jostle  as  they  do  in  dreams, 
Thinking  on  you,  and  what  with  you  is  dead. 
For  from  my  heart  young  trust  is  gone  with  you, 
And  left  it  wiser,  yes,  —  and  bitter  too. 

THE  RETURN 
'To  A.  L.  Bondurant 

Sit  here  beside  me,  noble  wife,  O  name 

More  sweet  than  sound  of  waves  on  reedy  shore, 

That  rose  and  fell  the  night  long  in  my  ear, 

And  said,  "Penelope,  Penelope," 

There  where  the  thousand  towers  of  Ilion 

Hung  glistening  in  the  moon,  afar,  and  made 

Lightning  of  the  pale  stars'  glimmering. 

Through  the  wild  battle  shout  and  clang  of  arms, 

And  through  the  mad  slaughter  when  Simois  stream 

His  channel  narrowed  with  the  Trojan  limbs, 

Warmed  with  the  mixture  of  the  gory  death, 

And  after,  all  the  years  I  roamed  the  world, 

On  windy  plain  and  over  the  large  sea, 

My  thoughts  were  thronged  with  thy  images, 

But  most  I  saw  thee  in  the  shadowed  door 

Stand  looking  after  me  with  thy  sad  eyes 

To  bid  me  hail  and  pray  the  blest  gods'  help. 

Round  the  wild  Egean  further  than  man 

Hath  been,  we  passed,  ploughing  the  windy  water 

With  bold  prow,  and  whitening  the  swirled  waves 

With  spume.     Where  out  of  it  emerged  wild  faces 

Of  Neureus'  daughters  marvelling  at  a  sight 

So  strange,  and  at  that  time  our  mortal  eyes 

Saw  the  sea  nymphs  with  their  naked  bodies  rising 

Breast-high  from  the  snowy  wake.     And  back  again 

By  Colchis  and  the  blue  Symplegades, 

By  Sicily  and  the  wind  god's  gusty  isles, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    73 

And  round  JExa.  lapped  in  sorceries. 

Where  is  a  garden,  lo!     I  heard  one  singing, 

Who  when  she  saw  me  nearing,  left  her  song 

And  took  me  to  her  hall  to  do  me  honour. 

A  palace  hung  with  tapestry  and  arms, 

And  tripods,  fountains,  and  heaped  flowers,  that  all 

The  chamber  air  laughed  with  the  jocund  odours. 

And  then  she  sang  again,  and  then  meseemed 

She  drew  the  very  heart  from  harmony 

And  sent  a  madness  through  my  listening  brain. 

My  glutton  comrades  had  she  changed  to  swine, 

And  when  I  drank  her  potion  I  had  changed, 

Had  not  before  me  stood  the  shining  god, 

Who  gave  me  one  white  flower  and  spake  thy  name, 

Penelope.     And  once  at  dusk  when  first 

The  stars  shone  on  the  marble  of  the  flood, 

Unto  mine  ear  from  where  the  Sirens  sang 

Came  honied  chaunts  across  the  summer  sea, 

Ah,  sweet  enough  to  melt  the  very  bones 

Of  the  fixed  purpose.     But  thy  strong  love 

With  faithfulness  had  fortressed  up  my  heart 

More  strong  than  Saturn  seven-ringed  with  flame. 

And  how  I  passed  the  whirlpool  and  the  rock, 

And  camped  among  the  cattle  of  the  sun, 

Bode  on  Calypso's  isle,  and  how  I  heard 

The  shriek  and  gibber  of  the  wretched  shades 

In  the  Cimmerian  gloom,  have  I  told  thee, 

Of  Nausicaa  and  King  Alcinous, 

And  that  Phaetian  ship  that  brought  me  home 

On  yesterday  thou  knowst  likewise.     Where  I 

Found  thee  with  thy  faithful  web,  and  all  that  courtly 

Evil  dogging  thy  tracks,  thy  lustful  suitors. 

Ay,  often  while  the  sailors  slept,  I  came 

And  stood  upon  the  foamy  prow,  ere  yet 

The  slim  moon  sank,  slow  faded  in  the  west. 

The  dawning-wind  heaped  up  the  sloping  waves, 

And  from  the  threshold  of  the  wandering  sun 


74    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Morn  walked  upon  the  sea.     And  slowly  first 

Under  the  gentle  breeze  the  waves  ran  lightly, 

That  in  our  track  a  plangour  of  laughter  rose, 

But  after  more  and  more  with  the  growing  wind 

They  grew,  and  swimming  backward  from  the  east 

Shone  with  the  purple  light.     And  ere  they  woke, 

My  men  who  must  not  see  me  sad,  I  said : 

"Now  she  hath  risen  and  the  hearth  is  bright, 

And  on  her  knees  my  son  Telemachus 

Lisps  his  sweet  idle  prattle,  or  clutches  with 

His  little  hands  her  ears  and  kisses  her. 

Methinks  she  sayeth  'Kiss  me  twice,  child,  once 

For  thee,  once  for  thy  father  who  returneth  not.'" 

And  often  had  I  sent  my  hungry  glance 

Where  the  line  spreads  on  the  unbroken  sea, 

And  felt  my  cheek  grow  pale  lest  thou  be  dead. 

But  when  at  last  my  own  loved  Ithaca, 

My  father's  land,  sloped  to  the  misty  sea, 

I  could  not  think  thee  dead  that  always  used 

To  welcome  me  when  I  returned  me  home. 

Yet  when  I  saw  thee  from  afar,  standing 

Again  within  thy  shadowed  door,  I  looked, 

And  looked  again,  and  could  not  check  the  mad 

Unconquerable  surging  in  my  heart, 

Nor  yet  believe  mine  eyes  saw  what  they  saw. 

But  drawn  more  near  heard  thee  speak  with  thy  heart, 

And  say,  "Ulysses,"  and,  "He  cometh  not." 

Nor  e'er  had  known  my  name  to  have  so  sweet 

A  sound  as  when  I  heard  it  syllabled 

By  thee.     Now  have  the  blest  gods  heard  thy  prayer. 

And  now  to-night  once  more  I  see  the  moon, 

That  with  her  monthly  course  hath  measured  long 

The  journey  of  my  absent  years,  trace  there 

Upon  the  pavement  court  the  grapeleaf's  shadow. 

O  home  the  temple  of  the  true  soul-gods, 

O  home,  and  chastity,  and  love  of  woman 

That  buoyed  me  and  my  ship  upon  the  sea, 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    75 
Nor  yet  will  fail  me  in  the  supreme  hour! 

SONG 

Oh,  all  my  heart  is  like  the  sea, 
With  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 
And  thou  art  a  fair  sea-jewel 
That  lieth  deep  below. 

And  deep  below  the  changing  waves 
The  luminous  sea-stone  lies, 
The  clear  day  cometh  from  the  East 
And  paleth  from  the  skies, 

Star-fires   throng  the   glassy  flood, 
And  the  gentle  moori  at  even, 
The  waters'  lovely  paramour, 
Wanders  the   field  of  heaven. 

And  moon  and  stars  and  sun  all  fill 
The  sea-gloom  round  thy  place, 
But  though  they  fade  still  shines  my  sea 
With  the  jewel  of  thy  face. 

GORDIA 

The  nightbird  crieth  a  long  wail, 
'Tis  a  ghostly  hour,  the  stars  are  pale, 
The  horned  moon  drifts  down  the  West, 
The  spectre  day  hath  stirred  and  soon 
The  sea-mells  chatter  in  the  nest. 
Why  goeth  Prosper  on  the  sands  ? 
Lo!  phantom  mists  are  on  the  plain, 
Cold  the  wind  comes  from  off  the  main. 

Out  in  the  melancholy  stars 

The  ghosts  of  dear  lost  things  must  come, 

And  many,  many  a  weary  day 


76    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Prosper  hath  his  wont  to  roam. 
'Tis  follow,  follow,  ah,  welaway, 
Tarry,  young  Prosper,  and  go  pray, 
Light  thy  taper  and  tell  thy  beads, 
Criste's  moder  hath  ear  for  lovers'  needs. 

'Tis  the  hour  I  wis  the  fisherfolk  say 

That  Gordia  comes  from  the  sea  to  the  rocks, 

And  singeth  her  piteous  lay, 

Weaving  her  garland  of  pale  sea-stocks. 

Strange  are  her  ballads  the  fishers  tell, 

For  mortal  men  not  well,  not  well. 

Some  say  she  is  a  sea-witch  come 

To  bind  poor  sailors  to  her  will, 

Some  speak  her  fair,  a  princess  from 

The  palace  of  the  sea-king,  still 

They  fear,  and  sometimes  in  a  ring 

The  gossips  gather  whispering  — 

It  is  a  grisly  crone  that  saith 

A  haunted  song  on  yesternight 

Hath  waked  her  from  a  dream  of  death, 

And  she  saw  through  the  moony  fog  the  light 

Gleam  on  the  robe  of  the  sea-maiden, 

And  how  her  song  was  sorrow-laden 

As  any  woman's  that  may  weep.     One  cries 

"Nay,  nay,  'twas  never  a  song 

From  a  woman's  heart,  the  song  I  heard, 

But  a  wild  and  ringing  melodic 

Of  all  the  kingdoms  that  belong 

In  the  sea-king's  rich  demesne, 

Of  wreathed  pearls  and  gems  that  gird 

The  brows  of  his  maidens  under  the  sea 

And  their  golden  hair."     'Tis  three  have  seen 

Her  spread  her  mantle  of  fair  sea-lace 

Bossed  with  lilies  and  sweet  sea-dace, 

And  long  would  she  wave  at  a  passing  boat, 

Ah,  sailor,  sailor,  didst  not  hear? 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    77 

Alack,  then  hath  she  torn  away 

The  bright  pearls  from  her  swelling  throat, 

And  children  later  playing  there 

Find  strange  sea-gems  and  a  broken  wreath, 

And  all-affrighted  hold  their  breath, 

"Thus  Gordia,"  they  say,  "doth  snare 

Poor  boatmen  to  their  death." 

But  late  young  Prosper  cometh  home, 
For  when  his  good  ship  sank  at  sea 
Through  many  a  citie  did  he  roam 
And  many  a  far  countrie, 
Where  men  to  wondrous  ventures  come. 
Yet  plain  and  citie  must  he  scorn, 
Knowing  she  waited,  sad,  lovelorn. 
But  when  he  cometh  to  the  bay, 
"Tis  seven  year  this  Whitsuntide 
She  waiteth  not,"  the  fishwives  say, 
But  no  man  knoweth  where  she  died. 

Prosper  he  is  mad  they  say, 
He  keepeth  but  his  cot  by  day, 
By  night  the  sands  and  the  cold  sea-air. 
The  long  waves  moan  unto  his  call, 
"Will  no  one  tell  me  where's  my  love, 
Or  who  hath  her  in  thrall  ?" 
"Prosper  is  mad,"  the  fishwives  tell, 
"The  inlet  sands  he  maun  beware, 
For  on  a  night  will  ring  his  knell 
When  Gordia  singeth  there." 

He  waiteth  not  to  hear  them  carp, 
The  dunes  their  ghostly  shadow  throw, 
The  moon's  rim  droppeth  down  the  sky, 
He  paceth  ever  to  and  fro. 
"Will  no  one  tell?"     The  wind  is  sharp, 
And  who  will  hear  his  cry  ? 


78    THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Alack,  what  charm  upon  him  fell  ? 

'Tis  never  mortal  throat  I  trow 

Singeth  so  wildly  well. 

Lo,  from  a  rock  'mid  scrare  sea-kale 

A  maiden  watcheth  yet  the  sea, 

And  beautiful  and  pale. 

But  on  her  cheeks  the  coral  hue 

And  coral  on  her  full  lips  too, 

And  hiding  her  shoulders  everywhere, 

Half-hiding  e'en  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  twisting  seaweed-like  it  fell, 

The  treasure  of  her  golden  hair. 

With  it  the  bright  sea-gold  is  spun, 

And  up  and  down  her  ringers  run 

Loosing  the  tangles  there. 

And  at  her  waist  her  fair  white  flesh 
Glows  with  the  lustre  of  her  zone, 
Of  amber  and  pearls  in  knotted  mesh 
And  unnamed  sea-stones  in  it  sewn. 
Where  from  it  hangeth  half-aslant 
All  the  long  mantle  fold  on  fold, 
Sinuous  and  undulant. 
Dim  twilights  in  its  tissues  sleep, 
As  some  soft  wave  from  out  the  deep 
Were  woven  in  with  threads  of  gold 
And  broidered  flowers  of  wide  sea-wold. 

Is  it  the  coral  and  sea-tints  there, 

The  green  of  her  mantle,  the  gold  of  her  hair, 

The  lines  of  her  body  flowing  free, 

The  swell  of  her  breasts  like  waves  at  sea 

Rising  ever  rhythmically  ? 

Is  it  the  song  the  maiden  sings 

Bindeth  Prosper  motionless  ? 

Or  what  sea-magic  is't  that  brings 

Into  his  eyes  the  blind  distress  ? 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    79 

Monotonous  and  swinging  slow 

Is  the  burthen  like  a  wave, 

But  her  voice  is  rich  and  low, 

And  the  murmur  of  it  sweet 

As  when  distant  surf  sounds  beat 

In  hollows  of  a  deep  sea  cave. 

"  When  the  wind  blows  in  across  the  bay, 
'Tis  follow,  follow,  ah,  welaway  ! 
For  her  that  waiteth  on  the  stone, 
Sailor,  make  moan. 

"When  a  lad  hath  sailed  upon  the  main 
And  never,  never  come  home  again, 
His  lass  must  rue,  the  way  is  wild, 
Ah,  Mary  Mother,  keep  thy  child 
Left  all  alone. 

"  There  was  one  who  sat  beside  the  shore 
And  watched  the  sea,  and  more  and  more, 
But  no  sail  came.     And  by  and  by, 
When  in  the  bay  the  tide  was  high, 
They  came  and  found  her  not,  and  wept, 
But  still  the  sea  his  secret  kept, 
Sailor,  make  moan." 

'Tis  follow,  follow,  ah,  weladay, 

The  wind  hath  blown  her  voice  away  — 

Prosper  listens  in  a  spell, 

The  chaunt  hath  broke  and  only  the  sound 

Of  the  muffled,  distant  buoy  bell 

To  show  the  tide  is  gaining  ground. 

Ah,  sweet  the  bell,  some  witch's  spell 

Hath  surely  sounded  Prosper's  knell, 

For  still  he  moveth  never  on. 

Nay,  listen,  listen,  she  lifteth  yet 

Her  voice  above  the  bell's  far  ringing, 

And  Prosper  standing  like  a  stone 


8o    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 
Hearkeneth  her  singing. 

"  Red  is  the  coral  under  the  sea, 
And  round  it  the  bright  fishes  swim, 
My  love  he  cometh  not  to  me 
And  ever  I  must  wait  for  him. 
White  coral  grows  the  red  among, 
And  pale  sea-grasses  -floating  long, 
And  will  he  never  hear  my  song 
And  come  away  with  me  ?  " 

Meseems  the  last  word  hath  not  died, 
Ere  Prosper  springeth  to  her  side, 
In  her  blue  eyes  he  hath  found 
Sea-lights  changing  momently, 
Her  silken  lashes  fringing  round 
Like  shadows  on  the  sea. 

"Dost  know  me  not?"  she  saith,  "ah,  me," 
'Tis  long  I  waited  thee." 

"Nay,  the  first  song  showeth  thou  art  thou 
Thou  that  didst  love  me,  even  thou, 
But  I  am  wildered  I  know  not  how. 
For  thou  singest  burthens  strange, 
Strange  are  thy  garments,  all  is  strange, 
Sure  thou  hast  suffered  some  sea-change." 

"Thou  earnest  not  for  evermore 

To  me  on  the  lone  shore. 

I  said,  'If  I  call  him  loud  he  will  hear 

Ere  the  long  day  come  and  go, 

Prospero,  Prospero. 

O  round  moon  rising  out  of  the  dark 

Bearest  my  love  in  thy  yellow  bark  ? ' 

The  white-capped  breakers  have  heard  my  moan, 

The  breakers  whisper  under  their  breath 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    81 

'Death,  Death!' 

The  sad  sea-voices  moaned  and  called. 

'Twas  down,  down,  straight  down 

To  regions  where  the  shifting  air 

Was  liquid  emerald. 

I  sat  by  the  sea-king's  windows  all  day 

And  saw  the  idle  sea-folk  pass, 

And  watched  the  haunted  wrecks  drift  by, 

But  thine  came  not,  alas. 

It  was  an  elvish  light  from  heaven, 

With  a  bright  blur  for  the  sun, 

And  the  charmed  moon  at  even 

Rising  through  the  unfathomed  green, 

Seemed  a  far-off  shadow-sheen. 

In  the  sea-groves  I  called  thee  loud  and  low, 

Prospero! 

And  the  sea-king  hath  heard  my  cry,  and  saith 

*I  would  not  have  thee  sorrow  so, 

He  shall  have  sea-life  after  death, 

And  come  home  to  thee,  never  fear, 

If  thou  waitest  seven  year/" 

Then  who  hath  known  him  greater  bliss, 

Or  dear  delight  to  follow  pain, 

For  heart  hath  never  joy,  I  wis, 

Like  lovers  met  again. 

The  dawn  is  in  the  pallid  skies, 

She  wreathes  a  circlet  on  his  brow 

Of  pearls  and  sea-anemones, 

She  leaneth  lower  to  him  now, 

And  long  she  kisseth  him,  till  lo! 

The  sea-lights  come  into  his  eyes. 

The  tide  it  crawleth  gradually, 

And  down  together  will  they  go 

To  the  green  fields  of  the  sea. 

'Tis  follow,  follow,  ah,  welaway, 


82    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

Who  knoweth  when  'tis  true  love's  day  ? 
Out  of  the  deeps  come  joy  and  pain, 
Into  the  deeps  are  ever  fain, 
Who  knoweth  when  they  go  again  ? 

The  fishers  on  the  lone  dun  sand 
Will  never  see  his  figure  looming, 
The  moon  it  riseth,  on  the  strand 
The  great  waves  booming,  booming! 

It  was  an  idle,  weary  day. 

Their  dim-flared  lanthorns  with  them  bringing, 

Homeward  they  turn  them  one  by  one, 

"Jesu  pity  him,"  they  say, 

"For  this  with  her  wild,  witch's  singing 

Gordia  hath  done." 

To  MY  SISTER 

Pale  as  thou  art  in  the  long  lonely  East, 
O  moon,  beyond  the  dark  violet  field  of  sea, 
Across  thy  restless  path  light-arrows  flee 
Like  fire-flies  from  some  faery  stream  released, 
And  bring  me  thoughts  of  her  with  the  white  brow 
And  deep,  kind  eyes.     Haply  she  too  to-night 
Looks  up  at  thee  as  I.     The  flowers  now 
Blow  sweet,  and  she  is  sweet  in  thy  fair  light, 
While  round  her,  in  each  walk  and  garden  way, 
The  shadows  shorten  as  thou  climbst  more  high. 
Or,  tired  with  the  sweet  mercies  of  her  day, 
Ere  this  did  she  up  to  her  chamber  creep, 
And  now  the  fringes  of  her  eyelids  lie 
Closed  in  the  visit  of  the  angel  Sleep. 


THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW    83 

To  THORNE 

(Fourteen  years) 

My  little  boy  with  the  woful  Latin  book, 
It's  many  a  time  I've  thought  of  you  o'  late, 
Meseems  your  every  gesture,  every  look, 
Your  coming,  going,  glance,  each  way  and  trait 
Have  come  by  night  and  day,  not  far  apart, 
Come  like  sweet  pilgrims  knocking  at  the  gate 
Where  memory,  a  meadow  round  Time's  brook, 
Spreads  green  before  the  castle  of  my  Heart. 
Each  pulse  of  the  big  engines  toward  the  prow, 
The  steerage  men  that  sing  and  dance  at  night, 
Cranks,  bells,  wheels,  all  would  be  your  keen  delight. 
Ah,  Sir  All-Eyes,  what  work  would  I  bestow 
To  pour  in  measure  of  a  lasting  rhyme 
For  you,  the  essence  of  your  golden  prime. 

SONNETS 


It  is  a  solace  of  mine  own,  dear  friend, 

That  in  thine  absences  I  have  thee  still. 

No  red  sun  sinks  behind  the  wooded  hill, 

No  pale  moon  rises  in  the  eastern  bend, 

But  I  must  look  and  question  in  the  end 

If  thou  too  lookest  from  thy  window  sill, 

And  let'st  that  same  old  human  hunger  fill 

Thy  heart.     No  low-sung  evening  songs  but  send 

Mine  ear  alistening  for  thy  voice  to  ring. 

To  all  my  journeys  among  books  I  bring 

Thy  thoughts  and  words  that  I  be  not  alone. 

So  shall  I  have  thee  most  when  thou  art  gone, 

When  speech  nor  glance  nor  motion  break  the  free, 

Deep-moving  converse  that  I  hold  with  thee. 


84    THE   BLIND  MAN  AT  THE  WINDOW 

ii 

When  I  am  grieved  that  you  are  gone  away, 
And  I  shall  not  see  you  for  many  a  week, 
Not  look  into  your  eyes  nor  hear  you  speak, 
I  bend  my  thoughts  to  our  next  meeting-day. 
Friends  to  be  friends  must  have  their  lives  keep  pace, 
And  both  must  move  or  both  must  sit  them  still, 
Else  comes  a  time  when  effort  and  forced  will 
Must  strain  to  keep  old  ties  and  old  friend's-place. 
So  shall  we  fight  each  one  his  separate  fight, 
And  so  shall  meet  new  words,  new  thoughts  to  tell, 
Shall  feel  a  newer  thrill  of  God  when  hand 
To  hand  we  clasp,  and  see  our  stature's  height 
Increased  some  cubits,  and  our  nostrils  swell, 
Stirred  with  the  keen  air  of  a  higher  land. 

ill 

In  case  I  shall  not  see  you  once  again 

In  the  diverging  courses  of  this  world, 

Where  men,  once  met,  forget,  or  straight  are  whirled 

In  widening  circles  far,  to  slack  my  pain 

I  have  a  vision  of  the  life  to  come. 

When  they  that  have  sought  much,  say  failed,  but  sought, 

Risked  many  fields  and  lost  or  won,  but  fought, 

Shall  leave  their  striving  off  and  turn  them  home 

To  God,  then  all  the  mighty  dead  shall  see 

How  we  have  striven  well,  shall  watch  us  rise 

Up  through  the  realm  of  sleep  and  death  that  seemed 

Once  to  be  our  life,  and  there  shall  we 

Hold  speech  again,  and  find  in  those  large  skies 

The  heaven  that  the  ancient  prophet  dreamed. 


